


The Man Who Had Only Dreams

by gemnoire



Series: The Man Who... [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Past Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:32:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemnoire/pseuds/gemnoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brussels, 2005

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting from my livejournal. 
> 
> French translations for which will be provided at the end.

Brussels, 2005: Eames  
  
Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.   
  
The first time Eames met Arthur he was in Brussels, dreary little city that it is. Cobb had met him at Zaventem airport after bringing him in to help them out on what had turned out to be significantly more complex job than originally anticipated.   
  
Wait.  
  
That wasn't actually true, the first time Eames met Arthur it was in a dingy little bar just outside of some godforsaken US army base in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Eames was close to three years out of Sandhurst, lieutenants pips just starting to tarnish, red para cap starting to feel comfortable and worn in. He was in the US for some sort of joint training exercise, that frankly he could never remember nor care about and, once it was over, he and the rest of his unit did what all good British squaddies do. They went and got pissed at the nearest bar, and because they were well-training British soldiers who had no particular wish to get blown up, they did so in civvies.   
  
Arthur, not that he knew his name at the time, was however in uniform, albeit physical training uniform, with its ugly green army t-shirt and dark trousers, but clearly marked out as a member of the US Army. Which made what Eames did next immensely, incredibility, stupid.   
  
It didn't help that Arthur was also gorgeous, whip thin, all lean muscle and sharp intelligent eyes and Eames, not one to reign in impulses at the best of times, was just drunk enough that it seemed like a good idea. Of course his mates were not helping either.  
  
“Oi, Dean,” because his name was James and soldiers, even officers, weren't exactly known for their originality, “Youse drooling man.” The speaker was Chuckles, who came from the bad part of Newcastle but was smart enough and determined enough to make a better life by going to Uni. Eames somehow doubted that joined the army afterwards was the best choice he'd made, but he kept that particular thought to himself.  
  
Instead he leaned back in his chair and, not taking his eyes off the attractive soldier, drawled out, “Well, I can't help it if I appreciate a pretty face. Oh and a down-right gorgeous arse.” Her Majesty's armed forces had seen fit in the past few years, just before Eames was set to attend Sandhurst in fact, convenient timing it was, to accept that maybe poofs might be able to shoot straight just as well as anyone else. Eames has been taking full advantage of this fact, within of course the bounds of taste and decency.  
  
“Yuh gan to git ye'self in a right spot of bother if yuh not careful man, they've git rules 'gainst that sort of thing here” The alcohol was making Chuckles even more geordie with the passing minute, so Eames decided to ignore what he was saying as unintelligible.  
  
Spotting the handsome soldier heading up to the bar, and in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, Eames stood up declaring, “Think it's my round, same again all round. Don't worry Barry, I'll make sure yours comes with a pretty _pink_ umbrella this time” Lt White threw a balled up napkin at him which he ducked his face sporting a grin as he made his way, somewhat unsteadily to the bar.  
  
Sidling up to the young solider, he leaned close and said in his lowest, best voice, “Hello gorgeous, I imagine you'd look even better out of that uniform.” Ok, so his pick up line probably needed a bit of work, he was drunk and young and that's his excuse and he's sticking to it.   
  
The soldier in question, rather than lamping him one like he probably quite richly deserved, instead gave him a cool once over, a disdainful look on his eyes. Although Eames, even in his drunken state, was very good a reading people and noticed that his eyes lingered just a bit too long in all the wrong places for the boy to be anything but bent. His voice however betrayed none of this as he said, very calmly, “You're drunk, _sir_ ”. The sir sounded distinctly like an insult.   
  
“Oh very much so, but I can assure you my performance is very much unimpaired” because he was drunk and the line sounded much much better in his head.   
  
The other man clearly thought so too, because the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile that was oh so clearly laughing _at him_ not _with him_. “With all due respect sir, I think you may have had enough.”  
  
Eames was saved from what would possibly have been the worst mistake of his life by Chuckles who had come up to the bar to find out what was taking him so long. During the ensuring, half way unintelligible conversation the soldier with the attractive arse made his escape.   
  
It would have been the worst mistake of his life too. Not because he wouldn't have been able to get him to agree, because he was pretty sure he would, or the omnipresent DADT, because despite his performance at the bar Eames did know how to be discrete. Rather because when he glimpsed the other man once around the base, before he was whisked back off the Blighty, he was wearing corporal's stripes, and Eames was an officer and not one to abuse authority like that and if he had, he doubted Arthur would have ever forgiven him.  
  
He never did find out his name.   
  
++++  
  
The second time Eames met Arthur, although that wasn't the name he was using then, he had just been deployed as an agumentee to Iraq, his predecessor having had both his legs off by an IED. This particular deployment had taken him three months early out of a two year residential tour to Londonderry, and frankly, Eames is pretty certain that he prefers downtown Basra to the charms of that particular little corner of the Emerald Isle.   
  
Not that he was particularly enjoying the Middle East either, in fact he was seriously considering getting out of the army and into something with a few less rules and regulations and even less people trying to shoot him. He'd made Captain a few months previously and his new CO, one of the exuberant go-getting type that seemed to infect the British Army, was trying to convince him to try out for the SAS. Eames was thoroughly not convinced, it seemed far too much like hard work.   
  
So, when he got called into Lt Col Niven's office on a surprisingly sunny September afternoon, he expects it to be another one of the colonel's as subtle as a bull in a china shop 'talks' about the future of his career and how special forces was clearly it.   
  
Instead he found the Colonel had guests, guests in plain cargo trousers, plainer shirts, dark glasses and a look that just screamed 'spook', at least to Eames. But then Eames had grown up around spies and had gotten pretty good at picking them out of a crowd and then walking quickly in the other direction. Not that the he'd have much chance doing that this time, but that still didn't stop him surreptitiously looking for the exits.  
  
Failing an escape, he perched himself on a table-edge as near to the door as he could reasonably manage, as Niven made introductions. He paid only cursory attention to the names, dismissing them as no doubt fake. He paid slightly more attention to the confirmation that yes, these gentlemen, or at least two of them, were from 'our friends in Vauxhall', whilst the other two were merely introduced as 'American colleagues'. CIA then, or DIA, NSA at a push maybe, Eames didn't really care.   
  
What he did care more about was the fact that apparently he and his men were being asked to conduct a foolhardy and possibly suicidal babysitting mission into warlord held parts of Basra so that the visitors could do something which was apparently beyond his 'need to know'. Probably conduct a bloody sightseeing trip knowing his luck.   
  
It was only when the older of the British spooks, Timothy Dale apparently, gestures over to the younger of his US colleagues that he started paying attention, “Kevin will give you the details you need once we're done here,” the man was saying. Eames didn't particularly care about that, because 'Kevin' may have been a couple of years older and have longer hair, but he was most definitely familiar and still had a very nice arse.  
  
The other man met his eyes and the slight frown that stole across his face indicated that the recognition was mutual. Eames couldn't help a grin steal across his face, 'oh this,' he thought, 'was going to be interesting.'  
  
A promised, however, once the briefing was over, what little there was of it, Kevin came over with a file, classification clear on its front, which he handed over with a terse “This should contain all the information you need,” and a clear indication that that was the entire sum of conversation that he wanted to impart.  
  
Eames wasn't going to let the boy get away that easily, his natural impulse to flirt shamelessly with the lad spurred on by his desire to needle any members of the boy's chosen profession. So, he allowed a lazy grin to settle over his face as he took the file off the boy, “Thank you, _Kevin_ ” His eyes trailed up and down his body suggestively, “I was right, you do look much better out of uniform.”  
  
The boy stiffened, and his glare dropped the temperature of the room by several degrees, but Eames, student of body language that he was, noticed the slight hitch of breath at the words and barely perceptible flush at his attention. 'Kevin' was most definitely interested. He also, it appeared, had considerable self-control, because he looked Eames straight in the eye, leaned forward and spoke in a low, firm tone, “May I remind you, Cpt Eames, that I am still under the Uniform Code and this could be construed as sexual harassment.”  
  
Eames smirked at that, because there was no way the boy would report him, but he backed off slightly, merely replying “Really, you Yanks and your rules, and they say we Brits are the uptight ones.”  
  
'Kevin' pulled back and snorted slightly, “I doubt anyone would make that error in your case.” And what did you know, he did have a sense of humour, dry as it was.   
  
“Some of us find life more comfortable without a stick stuck up our arses,” he smirked back, an expression tailored just right to annoy its target even as he flicked through the folder he'd been handed.  
  
It worked on 'Kevin' too, who shot him a glacial look. “Just make sure you find your professionalism long enough for you and your men to do your jobs”  
  
That annoyed Eames more than he'd like to admit. Insulting him is one thing, but insulting his lads was something else, “Oh don't you worry your pretty little head on that account, my lads will see you right.”At that, it appeared, the conversation was over, as Kevin merely snorted again in an expression that conveyed adequately exactly how much confidence he had in that statement, before stalking out the room.   
  
They barely spoke a word to each other during the rest of the operation, except when strictly necessary, with all of Eames' attempts to start up conversations brutally cut down with a terse glare and any questions as to the mission or the strange silver briefcase handcuffed to the other man's wrist met with a curt “That information is need to know Cpt Eames, and you don't need to know it.”   
  
The boy, although in Eames' more generous moments he would admit that he was only a few years younger than himself, one saving grace was that he did actually appear to be highly competent at his job. Shame that his personality left a lot to be desired.   
  
++++  
  
The third time he met the boy, the first time he met _Arthur_ , however was about a year and a half later, in Brussels on a rainy Thursday afternoon in August. He had, in the intervening time, both left the army and become intimately familiar with the contents of the other man's silver briefcase, or should that be the contents of a briefcase very much like it, not necessarily in that order.   
  
Still, the work he did now, what little of it he actually did do, was far from legitimate nor did it include, as a rule, dreaming. Which was why receiving a phone call from Dominic Cobb, dream researcher and still somewhat legitimate employee of the international Dream Institute came somewhat out of the blue, even if he had worked with the man before. The five figure fee promised for his attendance however soon cut through his surprise, especially considering that there were a number of parties in Las Vegas who were starting to display an unhealthy, at least as far as Eames was concerned, interest in his level of finances or lack thereof.   
  
“Eames,” Cobb greeted him when he met him in arrivals, “Thank you for coming.”  
  
“Oh I could hardly resist, Las Vegas was starting to become dull,” Eames replied as he shook the other man's hand, shifting his bag from his right to left hand.   
  
Cobb looked at him sceptically, before shaking his head with an expression of amused exasperation, “We're working out of the Hilton,” at Eames raised eyebrow he grimaced slightly, “our clients request.”   
  
“Which I'm sure you are in no way taking advantage of with the lovely Mal Duarte.” Eames gave the other man a knowing smile which turned smug when the other man blushed slightly before laughing.  
  
“You never do change do you?”   
  
“I try not to, it's important to be consistent after all.” An amusing lie coming from a con man, one Cobb clearly found equally amusing too. Eames continued, changing the topic, “so who is this mysterious employer, with it would appear considerably more money than sense.”  
  
Cobb stiffened slightly and glanced around his meaning clear, “Later, I'll give you all the details in the car.”  
  
True to his word, Cobb spent half the car ride to the hotel explaining the job to him and the other half cursing the skills of Belgian drivers, and really for a man who grew up in LA and spent half his life in Paris, he should be able to handle this a little better.   
  
Apparently they'd been contacted, discretely, by some EU bigwig who's name Eames didn't recognise and didn't particularly care about, who believed he'd been extracted after an evening involving far too much alcohol, a highly attractive blonde who's name escaped him and waking up in a hotel room with pin pricks in his wrist and no memory of the evening after leaving the soiree he'd been attending. Eames had to admit, the man was probably right on his first guess, although the fact that he'd obviously figured it out quite so quickly spoke volumes about the professionalism, or lack thereof, of the extractors in question.  
  
The man's primary concern was apparently damage control, and had brought in Cobb, world's foremost expert on dream security, completely off the books to try and drag out his memories of the evening and what might have been taken from his mind. Apparently finding the culprits was secondary to anticipating any potentially compromising news stories that might emerge out of the debacle.  
  
“Sounds dreadfully straightforward.” Eames finally said, pausing briefly to allow Cobb to curse in fluent French at the driver who'd just cut him up, before continuing “Why exactly do you need someone of my, dare I say, not inconsiderable talents?”   
  
“The client's subconscious is being difficult. Even though his conscious mind is clearly willing to co-operate once we go down in the dream it's a different matter. No matter what we do, his mind won't let us in.” Cobb's frowning as he talks and Eames can feel the frustration coming off him.   
  
“Are you certain the client's not lying to you? It wouldn't be the first time after all.” It seemed the most obvious solution after all.  
  
Cobb glanced at him with an amused expression, “That's what Arthur said.”  
  
“Arthur?” Eames was intrigued, last time they'd worked together it was just Cobb, his lovely fiancée and an occasional researcher-come-point man called Mickey, an unreliable sod at the best of times.   
  
“My new point man, you'll meet him when we get to the hotel,” Cobb gave him an sly smile, “Mal reckons you two should hit it off like a house on fire.”   
  
From the look Cobb was giving him, Eames suspected she meant that there would be a lot of screaming, smoke and the occasional person dying.   
  
His guess was proved right when less than half an hour later as he followed Cobb into the large suite they were clearly using as an office space to be greeted with an exasperated, “The plane got in an hour ago and traffic was non-existent on the Ring and the E40, so what, exactly, took you so long?”  
  
The small part of Eames' mind which was paying attention to the conversation noted the tone of the other man's voice, the somewhat sheepish “I took the scenic route” from Cobb and the even more exasperated “You got lost again.” in response and guessed that this was a conversation the two men had already had several times over however many days they'd been involved in this job.   
  
The majority of Eames' mind however was occupied with cataloguing the fact that the boy, previously known as the almost certainly fake 'Kevin' was standing in front of him in a sharp, and somewhat expensive suit, and was looking even more gorgeous that the first two times they'd met. The other man looked up and met his eyes and if Eames hadn't been paying significant amounts of attention to him at that moment, he might have missed the glimmer of recognition that crossed his features before being replaced with an impassive mask.   
  
Cobb was clearly not paying as much attention to his point man as Eames, because he continued on with introductions regardless, “Eames, this is Arthur. Arthur, this is the forger I was telling you about.”  
  
Arthur reached out to shake his hand, his face impassively blank, his manner clearly indicating that he was going to ignore their previous interactions, “Pleased to meet you, Mr Eames.” Formality could be read in every line of his body.  
  
Frankly Eames couldn't be having that, so he said the first this which came into his mind, “You know love when I said you'd look good out of uniform, I didn't realise quite how fetching you'd look in a suit.”  
  
++++  
  
Brussels, 2005: Arthur  
  
Brussels isn't the first time he sees the other man, but it is the first time that _Arthur_ , not Corporal Miller or Kevin, meets _Eames_. If he'd realised at the time quite how important this moment would be in his life he might have done things differently, but as it was at the time it was all he could do to stop himself shooting the other man and being done with it.  
  
“You know when I said you'd look good out of uniform, I didn't realise quite how fetching you'd look in a suit.” the other man had said by way of greeting, a smirk spreading across his face. Arthur stiffened, stamping down on the heat coiling in his stomach because however infuriating the other man was, and however sleazy his pick up lines, Arthur was still human and he had _eyes_ dammit.   
  
He kept his expression cold, hoping that the infuriating Captain, no ex-Captain now, would get the message, “I believe you must have me confused with someone else.”   
  
Eames just smirked at him in response, “Whatever you say, _Arthur_.” He positively drawled on his name, as if testing the words out. Arthur pushed his expression a few notches further towards arctic, because he was a professional and frankly the alternative was simply not acceptable.   
  
“Eames! You're here!” Mal's exclamation of joy cut through the tension in the room. The retort that had been building died on Arthur's lips and he dragged his focus back towards his research and the job at hand. It took himself a few moments, and he was eminently glad that the attention of the other individuals in the room was currently focused entirely on greetings and cheek kisses and reminisces and not on him.   
  
This was not meant to happen to him. Oh, not the physical attraction, he'd had his fair share of crushes in high school, had even acted on one or two of them, all of them inevitably a mistake but that's what you did when you were young and stupid. He'd had his fair share of one-night stands, messy anonymous sex with men picked up in grimy bars used to relieve tension when reliance on his right hand got too stale. But he'd never met anyone who'd gotten under his skin quite so quickly, he wasn't certain if he wanted to hit the other man or jump him.   
  
The last time he'd felt this wound up, just after coming back from a mission in Iraq as it happened, he'd done something stupid, hadn't been nearly careful enough in the bar he'd frequented or the motel he'd gone to and had ended up with a dishonourable discharge. The memory pushed him firmly over into irritation and there was nothing forced about the glare he sent the other man's way when the forger, and really Arthur would believed that particular skill when he saw it, dropped into the chair opposite him, feet planted lazily on the table.  
  
“So, tell me all about this Gaetan Van der whatever” the other man drawled.  
  
Arthur didn't bother to suppress his sigh of irritation at the mess Eames was making of his files and pushed his feet off the table, “Gaetan Vandendries, aged 54, married, two grown children. Works as a senior _fonctionaire_ for the EU. Highest level of security clearance, access to highly sensitive defence information.”   
  
He was cut off mid-brief by a yawn from Eames, “Really darling, I could find any of that out from a quick search on wikipedia. Could you please skip over the background fluff and get on to the juicy bits before I die of boredom.” Any stirrings of attraction had now firmly been stamped out, replaced with an over-riding desire to slap that smirk off the other man's face.   
  
++++  
  
The bar was too loud, too bright and too crowded, in sum everything that Arthur hated about a place. It was Eames' dream, so really, it figured. Trying desperately to ignore the headache which was started to emerge from the pounding music and even more painful décor, he grabbed a seat at the bar, a horrifically tacky, not to mention uncomfortable, chrome monstrosity of a chair, and ordered a drink. He wondered briefly how drunk you could get within a dream then dismissed the idea as frankly unprofessional.   
  
The bartender smiled flirtatiously as him as she pored him a drink, he smiled politely back at her in a way which he hoped was in no way encouraging but which she unfortunately seemed to interpret it a little differently and slipped him her number alongside his beer. He ignored it. The projections were all Mal's who had developed, it seemed, a rather big sisterly affection towards him in the time they'd been working together. In truth, if forced, he would admit that he enjoyed the affection. It was a novel experience, being wanted, and not one he was easily willing to give up.  
  
Unfortunately, at the moment this sisterly affection appeared to be manifesting itself in a desire to find him a girlfriend, because, and he quotes, 'Arthur, a lovely young man like yourself shouldn't be alone. It's more than a shame, it's a tragedy!'. He hadn't worked up the courage yet to tell her she was looking in the wrong place, in part because he was certain that all that would do was change the focus of her matchmaking attentions but mostly because Arthur felt far too new in his friendship with both of them to be able to accurately predict how they would react to the news and he wasn't exactly known for taking risks at the best of times.  
  
Brushing off the advances of a petite Asian girl, he scanned the room, trying to spot their British colleague. That was after all the whole point of the exercise, to demonstrate Eames' alleged shape-shifting abilities. Arthur remained unconvinced. As much as he'd heard rumours that the British had developed a 'forging' technique, evidence remained, as yet, scarce on the ground. So much so that up until now Arthur had been content to file forging in alongside inception into the box firmly labelled 'urban myths'.   
  
As such he expected the current demonstration to be short-lived. Maybe the other man would be able to change small aspects of his features, but Arthur was blindly confident that there was no way he would be able to change enough about himself to make him unrecognisable. It was one of the basic tenants about dreaming, such was the strength of the self-image was such that the the dreamer would always represent themselves in a way which reflected reality.   
  
He was mildly surprised when almost an hour had passed in the dream without having seen even a glimmer of Eames in the crowds. If it hadn't been for Cobb's assurances that the other man was in the dream from the beginning, he might has suspected some form of trick. It was possible that he might have missed the man in the heaving crowds, which was, he contemplated, probably why the forger had chosen to dream up such a bar in the first place.  
  
In contrast to his luck at finding the forger, his 'luck' with the ladies was significant, having had no fewer than a dozen propositions from women of all ethnicities, sizes and shapes. He glared over at where Mal was sitting as he politely declined the latest invitation to dance, and she raised her glass at him in a mock salute, a mischievous smile on her lips. She was, he suspected, trying to figure out his 'type'.  
  
As a result, when a buxom blonde slid into the chair besides him and, after ordering a drink, a Bloody Mary no less, he merely assumed this was yet another in the long line of projections trying to gain his interesting. The blonde took a dainty sip before leaning quite clearly into his personal space and purring in a low voice, “What is a handsome man like you doing drinking all alone in a place like this.”   
  
Arthur frowned, figuring that Mal was taking his appreciation of film noir far too seriously, before looking the woman straight in the eye and saying, as clearly as he could, “I'm sorry, I'm really not interested,” before turning back to his observation of the bar.  
  
Unlike the other projections who'd approached him, this one clearly didn't take the brush off lightly because she leaned over and slide a hand seductively up his knee. “Oh, but I think you are darling,” she purred, moving even closer into his personal space.  
  
He sighed, “I'm waiting for a friend, if you'll excuse me” he tried to pull away, wondering briefly how exactly he would be able to extricate himself should the blonde become more persistent without attracting the ire of the other projections. Mal's mind may not have been militarized, but her projections could be downright rabid when inflamed.   
  
The issue became considerably more immediate as the woman leaned in to kiss him before he could make his escape, one hand trailing behind his back, the other hand grasping his wrist in what he found, as he tried to pull away, was a surprisingly strong grasp. “You really aren't interested are you darling, no worries I'm sure I can find something a little more to your liking” she whispered in his ear after a moment, and even as he was processing how the voice, and the accent sounded wrong coming from her lips, not to mention strangely familiar, he felt the body pressed up against him shift and change to become something distinctly male.   
  
To Arthur's great disgust, his groin responded immediately to this new stimuli, even as his conscious mind forced himself to push away. Cursing the treacherousness of his own anatomy, he looked over at the smirking face of Eames and stamping very firmly on any feelings of admiration he may have for the other man's skill, because really the blonde had been _very_ convincing, he did the only thing he really could. He shot him.   
  
Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself and bring his raging hormones back under control, he proceeded to shoot himself in turn.   
  
He was up and out of the chair almost before his mind had fully returned to consciousness. Ignoring Eames indignant retort about the manners of men who feel the need to shoot people who were kind enough to bestow a kiss on them, he stormed out the hotel room and down the corridor. He wasn't certain exactly where he was going, he just knew he needed to get out the vicinity of the other man before he did something he regretted. Although what exactly that something would be was another matter altogether.   
  
He slowed down only slightly when he heard Mal's calling to him, “Arthur, attends!” She was annoyed, she always resorted to French when she was, feeling that her native language was much more proficient at conveying her displeasure.   
  
“Arrête, m'enfin!” He finally stopped as she asked, turning to face her, despite all temptation to just keep walking. “Faut pas lui prendre comme ça, Eames est le même avec tout le monde. Tu sais bien qu'il te taquine!”  
  
He sighed, frustrated, “I know,” and yes he did know that Eames was only teasing, that he was like that with everyone, he bit down on his treacherous tongue before it could continue 'that's the problem.' Instead he ran a hand through his hair, bringing himself back under control before saying, “I'm going out, tell Cobb I'll be back in the morning.”  
  
She didn't look particularly happy about that but she nodded, telling him to be careful even as he was heading down the corridor and out in the sharp evening air.   
  
Almost without conscious thought he found himself in a gay bar, not, in many ways, unlike the one he had just left in the dreamscape. And if the man Arthur picked up that evening happened to bear a strong English accent and a passing resemblance to the forger he'd left behind at the hotel, that was neither here nor there. After all there was a significant British expat community in the area and Arthur always had gone for the broad-shouldered ruggedly handsome type.   
  
++++  
  
Despite the late night, Arthur was back in the hotel suite first thing in the morning as promised, a shower and a changed suit ensuring that no evidence remained of the previous night's activities. Mal gave him a worried look when he came in, clearly concerned that he hadn't come back to the hotel the night before, he ignored it, considering it far to early, and himself far too lacking caffeine, to deal with her concern.   
  
Eames, predictably, smirked at him as he came in, a knowing look which seemed to indicate that he was perfectly aware of what he'd been up to. “Good night last night then pet?”  
  
Arthur stiffened, because this was _not_ something to talk about here, at work, in front of Mal. He turned on Eames one of his colder glares, snapping “I hardly think that's any of your business.” The glare failed to work and the other man opened his mouth to retort, no doubt commenting on his surprise that Arthur did anything outside of work, because frankly even after a week of working together their banter was starting to get somewhat predictable.  
  
“Oh I'm sure I could make it my business,” was what the other man said instead and there was no mistaking the invitation in those words.  
  
Suppressing brutally his body's instinctive reaction to that tone of voice, instead he snorted and said curtly, “I have standards Mr Eames.” He turned his attention back to his files, hoping that with that the conversation would be over before he went and did or said something thoroughly unprofessional.   
  
Any snappy comeback the forger may have had to that was pre-empted by Cobb clearing his throat, drawing the attention of all those in the room back to the job at hand.   
  
One of the better things about working with Cobb was that he was good at getting straight to the point, this morning was no exception. “Whatever Mr Vandendries may say, its clear from our previous attempts that his subconscious has significant trust issues. He also has a level of militarization to contend with.”  
  
Eames raised an eyebrow at that and Arthur elaborated, feeling the need to make it clear that this was not a failure of intelligence on their part, “Standard level of training for someone with his level of security clearance. It was not anticipated to be an issue as the client in this case is voluntarily undergoing to procedure.”  
  
“Let me guess, this too is apparently beyond his conscious control.” The forger's tone of voice made his scepticism at this claim clear.   
  
“Oui, his mind appears to be trying to protect itself from something. It may be a fear of discovering what exactly happened that night, a trauma maybe, or it could be that his mind is unwilling to open to strangers through fear we would learn something greater than he is wishes to disclose.” It was often easy, given how skilled Mal was at creation within the dreamscape, that her original interest was as a psychologist.   
  
“So, we're dealing with a paranoid, militarized subconscious which we may or may not be trying to remind of a horribly traumatizing event. Lovely” Eames summed up with a sardonic look.  
  
Cobb gave him an ironic smile in response, “Something like that. Our main issue has been trying to convince his mind to trust us before his projections tear us apart,” and Arthur had to suppress a grimace as he said that, because keeping the projections off them was _his_ job and he felt the failure keenly, “We need you to forge someone he already trusts, make his subconscious believe it is safe enough to give up his secrets.”  
  
Eames nodded at that, his expression thoughtful as he flipped through the file in front of him, “I'll need access to the mark,” cutting Cobb off before he could comment that that was hardly an issue, given that the client was the mark to continue, “without him knowing about it. I need to see who he really trusts, not who he says he does.”  
  
Arthur nodded at that, made sense, he mentally flipped through what he knew of the man and considered possible options, “Outside of his home life, and I'm assuming we're discounting the wife as a possible source of trust, he spends almost all of his time at the office or socialising with work colleagues. Getting you a position within his office should be easy enough, although it may take me a few days to source the appropriate references.”  
  
The other man gave him a smug grin, “Luckily for you, my forging skills extend beyond the dreamscape.” there was a challenge in there somewhere, but Arthur refused to let himself take the bait, the man got under his skin far to easily as it was without giving him any encouragement.   
  
++++  
  
The job was going well, almost too well and Arthur was just waiting for something to fuck up and the other shoe to drop. Oh, Vandendries' projections were aggressive in their pursuit still, but Eames' forging of the man's colleague and best friend seemed to have calmed them down enough that it was relatively easy to lead them on a chase around the maze of back streets, twists and paradoxes that Cobb had designed for the task.   
  
But then, predictably, the projections start getting nastier and more vicious and Arthur couldn't help but wonder what Eames had done to set them off. He doesn't even question why he's so certain that this was Eames' fault, it just seemed to fit with the way the rest of his life was going right now.  
  
Ducking through a doorway as bullets splintered the brickwork next to his ear, he leaned back out getting off a couple of shots before running round the corner and through a gate at the end of the alleyway into a small private garden. There were two more projections there and he managed to get one of them before they can react, but then the other is shooting at him and all he can do is use one of the large birtch trees as cover, wood splintering around him.   
  
He waited until the man had exhausted his ammo and stopped to reload, feeling blood starting to drip down his cheek from where a sliver of wood had grazed his face. Taking his chance, he shot the projection in the middle of sliding a new clip into his gun. An AK-47 of course, and really, Eames accused _him_ of having no imagination. Hearing more projections approaching, he ran out the gate on the other side of the garden and straight into Eames, apparently having shifted at some point back into his own form, who was at that moment attempting to hold off the on-coming projections with an SA80.   
  
The forger whirled as he heard him approach and, Arthur noted, only just managed to stop himself from shooting the point man, which would have been embarrassing for all concerned. “Ah, there you are love. I think we may have run into a spot of bother.” Arthur rolled his eyes at the typically British capacity for understatement. “Cobb's getting the goods now, reckons he needs about ten minutes.” the other man continued, after a pause to reload.  
  
Arthur knew all about Cobb's estimates.“We'll give him fifteen to be safe,” he replied. Glancing around quickly he considered their options, if he remembered rightly there should be a way through the house attached garden he'd just come out of.   
  
“This way,” he nodded to the other man and ducked back into the small space of greenery, heading instead up for the house the house. “What did you do?” he shouted as he finally skidding to a stop besides the one of large windows looking out of the front of the street, peering out as he did to check on their pursuers. The coast seemed clear  
  
“What makes you think this is my fault.” Eames asked as he flattened himself the other side of the corridor, peering back at where the projections were making their way through the garden towards them.   
  
Arthur gave him a Look, before nodding towards the front entrance, “Street's clear, I'll cover you.”  
  
Despite everything, Eames was a trained soldier and didn't question the order, instead nodded in thanks as he headed out into the street, taking up a position further down to cover Arthur's retreat from the house. Squeezing off a couple of shoots at the projections who were now heading through the house towards the back door, he followed him out. It wasn't until they were pressed against the entrance and exit to a small alley respectively, catching their breaths, that the forger answered his question, “I may, possibly, have given him the impression I was sleeping with his wife.” He sounded almost sheepish as he said it.  
  
“You what?” Arthur stopped himself from shouting, just, because that would have been a particularly bad idea at this point, but he couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice as he said it.   
  
“It was an innocent comment! How was I to know he already suspected them of having an affair.” Eames defended himself before peering round the corner and raising his gun to get off some shots. “As lovely as this little alleyway is, looks like we've got company.”   
  
Eventually, after eleven minutes and twelve seconds they ended up caught between two oncoming crowds of projections with no obvious way out. Eames let off a final burst of fire before looking back at Arthur, “Well I don't know about you darling, but I think its about time we took the easy way out of this little sojourn. Being torn apart by an angry mob wasn't really on my 'to do' list today.” He raised the gun to his chin and pulled the trigger.   
  
It clicked, “Bugger.” was all the other man said, before throwing a questioning glance over at Arthur's glock.   
  
Arthur checked his own ammo, one bullet left and no guarantee that Cobb had managed to get the information yet. There really was only one sensible option left so he shot the forger in the head, telling himself it was entirely because the man would merely end up being a distraction and not because he didn't really have to stomach to watch him being torn apart, and then steeled himself to try and buy as much time for Cobb as possible before succumbing to the mob.   
  
++++  
  
Arthur opened his eyes shakily, being torn apart by an angry mob was never a nice death at the best of times, unfortunately however vicious the client's projections had been when they just thought they were attempting to steal his secrets they were even worse once they believed the theft had actually happened. Frankly, given the trouble they'd had when the client was supposedly consenting, Arthur wondered how the original team had extracted anything from him in the first place.   
  
Giving himself a couple of seconds to compose himself, he pushed himself up off the bed and look at his companions. Cobb and Mal appeared to be in their own process of waking, whereas Eames, having been ejected some minutes sooner, had already removed his IV line and was looking at Arthur with an expression on his face that Arthur couldn't quite decode and really wasn't sure he wanted to in any case. He ignored him, helping Cobb and Mal instead to pack up the PASIV and wake up the client. He half heard the other leave, no stalk out the room, a comment of needing a smoke floating behind him on the way out   
  
It wasn't until later that evening that he saw the other man again, long after they had packed up the office and debriefed the client with what they'd learned. Almost typically for how their luck was going on the current job, it turned out he hadn't even been extracted in the first place, the assumption having come from the results of a perfectly ordinary attempt to blackmail him involving a sedative, a blonde and a camera, and his own paranoid mind.   
  
Arthur was packing the last of his clothes in his case, hoping to be on a plane and out of this miserable city as soon as humanly possible when the other man strode into his room. The point man wasn't going to insult them both by asking how he'd bypassed the lock, saying instead “In polite company people knock first.” He continued packing as he spoke, not daring to look at the other man.  
  
“Apparently Cobb managed to get the information after only nine minutes, so it seems your little self-sacrificing stunt was wasted.” For some reason the forger seemed angry, which didn't make much sense to Arthur since _he_ was the one who'd ended up ripped to shreds by the projections.   
  
“Forgive me for not wanting to take any chances with this job, especially after _someone_ managed to convince the mark his best friend was sleeping with his wife.” He glared briefly at the other man as he moved around him to grab the last of his suits our the wardrobe.  
  
“It's not my fault, Arthur, that our client had serious mental problems. The man, in case you hadn't realised yet, is borderline paranoid schizophrenic.” Eames hissed out in his own defence, before looking at Arthur with a nasty, smirk on his face, “Of course, it might be that he wasn't the only one with mental problems. Didn't take you for a closet masochist love, enjoyed being ripped apart by projections did you?”   
  
Arthur resisted, just, the urge to punch the other man, shutting his suitcase with distinctly more force than was necessary, “Goodbye, Mr Eames.” He kept his tone calm and icy, but something of the suppressed anger must have shown in it, because Eames took a step back as he moved past with his suitcase. “Your fee will be wired to you,” the final 'fuck you' left unsaid but distinctly present in the words as he shut the door behind him.  
  
At the time he had hoped that would be the last he'd ever see of the infuriating forger. He should have known his life would never work out that way.


	2. 2006

Paris, January, 2006: Arthur  
  
Dom and Mal were getting married, a January wedding in Paris, hardly traditional yet somehow romantic with the frosty winter air and the dusting of snow along rooftops and streets. Not that it was planned that way. They'd been engaged for months and the church, apparently the same one Mal's mother had gotten married in, was so booked up January was no doubt the only date they could do.  
  
Despite what people often assumed later, Arthur was not meant to be Cobb, no Dom now, the man had insisted, best man. They had at that point barely known each other for six months, even if with dream time that acquaintance stretched closer to years. The best man duties were meant to fall to one of Dom's old friends from college, now an architect in New York, a friend who Dom had known most of his life.  
  
Arthur hadn't even planned on attending. He did not, as a rule, _do_ weddings, a point he'd made perfectly clear to the happy couple when invited. Unfortunately Dom had been surprisingly insistent, or possibly not so surprising given the man's stubborn nature, worse, he'd roped Mal in to help him, knowing full well that Arthur found it difficult to resist the her at the best of times.  
  
“Of course you have to come, it wouldn't be the same without you,” Mal had insisted, continuing, “if nothing else there has to be someone there to entertain bridesmaids other than Dom's brother.” Her tone of voice indicated perfectly what she thought about the gentleman in question. Since Arthur's experience of said brother had left him with the impression of short, balding mole of a man with a personality as interesting as cardboard, he tended to agree with her assessment.  
  
Arthur had, at that point, been ignoring Mal's various attempts at cajoling, pleading and downright insisting he attend by reading the paper, and it was that particular distraction he blamed for the words that slipped out of his mouth almost absent-mindedly, “I imagine they are going to be disappointed with the result in either case.” He mentally cursed himself as soon as he said it and hoped that she would missed the possible implication of the words.  
  
No such luck. Mal was looking at him with an expression as if he was a puzzle were all the pieces had finally slotted into place. Arthur couldn't help but think that she should have picked up the clues earlier given the amount of interest she seemed to have in his lovelife.  
  
“Arthur!” she exclaimed, “Why did you never tell me you were gay? And all those girls I set you up with, no wonder I could never find your type.”  
  
He shrugged and replied, “You never asked.” He tried to keep his tone indifferent, as if her reaction to the news didn't mean anything to him.  
  
“Bah, didn't ask he says!” despite her annoyed tone, she had a playful smile on her lips which Arthur took to be a good sign, “There's nothing for it. To make up for not telling me, you are definitely coming to the wedding. I _refuse_ to take no for an answer!”  
  
And that was that.  
  
Eventually, as the date approached, Arthur consoled himself that maybe it wouldn't end up being quite so bad. If he was lucky, he might be able to slip away from the reception after the toast and avoid having the spend the evening socialising with the complete strangers who made up Mal and Dom's extended family and friends, strangers with whom he would no doubt have little to talk about and even less in common. In short, his idea of hell.  
  
Life, of course, conspired against him. Dom, no after this particular stunt he was definitely back to Cobb, Cobb's best man had ended up stuck in a blizzard in New York the day before the wedding with absolutely no way to make it out in time. Lacking any better options, or at least that's the only explanation Arthur could come up with, his employer had instead turned to him to take the unfortunate friend's place.  
  
Arthur firmly blamed Cobb for this, because frankly he should have planned for issues like this when organising a wedding in January and really, who's stupid idea was it to hold a wedding half way round the world from where your best man lives. Although, that one might have been unfair, since if they'd held it LA where Cobb's family lived they would have had exactly the same problem and in no way would the church be quite as nice.  
  
The ceremony itself went without a hitch, after all his best man duties were remarkable similar to those whilst on point, ie ensuring that Cobb arrived at a specific location, the church, at a specified time, just before 10.50am, with the correct equipment, namely the rings.  
  
The reception was entirely a different matter. It wasn't just the best man speech, although Arthur could have done without that, but also the inevitability that as best man, he would not only be highly noticeable if he were to leave early, but also no doubt be dragged into numerous dances with overeager bridesmaids and teenaged cousins.  
  
Actually, if he was to admit it, it was mostly the best man speech.  
  
Which was how Arthur found himself at the bar of the cosy little brasserie, owned apparently by a friend of the family, trying desperately to stamp down the mounting feeling of dread. It was ridiculous really, Arthur had never considered himself a shy person by any stretch of the imagination. He could stare down oncoming hoards of militarized projections with barely a blink or give intelligence briefs to senior military personnel at five minutes notice with faultless professionalism but somehow the prospect of giving a short toast to a room full of harmless middle aged members of Cobb and Mal's family sent him into a cold sweat.  
  
He took another sip of his whiskey, aiming to deal with his irrational and downright irritating fit of nerves using the tried and tested balance of exactly the right amount of alcohol to make him no longer care about the possible social embarrassment without actively impairing his performance.  
It was probably a testament to the amount he actually had drunk that it took him a few moments to register when a familiar figure enter the room.  
  
Eames.  
  
He wondered briefly why he was so surprised. Even if the Brit hadn't been invited, and given Mal's fondness for the man, he almost certainly had been, he seemed the type who would gatecrash a wedding anyway, just to cause a scandal.  
  
He wasn't even overly surprised when the forger decided to make his way over to where he was perching, not just because annoying Arthur seemed to be the eminently irritating bastard's mission in life, but because Arthur had foolishly managed to position himself at the closest point in the room to free-flowing alcohol. Resigning himself to the prospect of an evening fending off the Englishman's advances, he resolutely ignored the small treacherous part of himself which took a level of comfort in forger's presence.  
  
“Ah Arthur, starting on the whiskey already are we?” Eames said in way of greeting, sliding onto a barstool next to him uninvited and ordering from the bartender a glass of 'whatever he's having'.  
  
“I see your powers of observation are as sharp as ever,” Arthur replied dryly, resolving not to give him any encouragement to continue their conversation.  
  
Eames, of course, was clearly not on the same wavelength and just grinned lazily at him as he took a large gulp of his drink, “You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were nervous.”  
  
Arthur was annoyed at himself for being so transparent, even to a trained observer of human nature but he refused to allow the other man the satisfaction of seeing how close he was to the mark. “It's a good thing you do know me better then isn't it.” he responds instead.  
  
“Only after long periods of study, I can assure you.” Arthur couldn't help the coil of heat the spread through him at the look Eames sent his way which gave him little doubt exactly what said studying entailed.  
  
He changed the topic quickly, hoping that some of what he was feeling wasn't showing on his face. “You weren't at the ceremony,” because one advantage of the best man role was an excellent view of the pews and he would have noticed.  
  
He noticed with some amusement that Eames looked slightly sheepish, “Ran into a spot of bother down in Monacco, got a bit delayed coming up.”  
  
“What sort of trouble?” Arthur had come across Eames' definition of a 'spot of bother' before and he tried to convince himself it was merely professional concern which made his voice sharp.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames sounded positively delighted and really, couldn't the man take anything seriously, “is that concern for my welfare I hear?”  
  
Arthur snorted, denying the fact, “More like concern for whatever trouble you might have dragged along with you,” and that was a lie and they both knew it.  
  
“Really darling, if I were any other man, I might start taking you lack of confidence in my abilities personally,” Eames was smiling as he said it but there was something behind it that Arthur couldn't quite decipher.  
  
“If you were any other man, you might be right.” That definitely did not come out the way he meant it to but it was too late to take it back. The self-satisfied grin on Eames's face destroyed any hope he had that the forger may have misheard.  
  
He was saved from any further embarrassment however by the gong signalling that it was time for the guests to take their places at the table for dinner and it was with more than a little relief that Arthur took his place at the top place and well away from the Brit's knowing smirk.  
  
++++  
  
Arthur thought long and hard about the answer to the question, the alcohol haven given the question the level of importance he usually reserved for planning a job or researching a mark, before answering with solemn certainty, “The Emperor.”  
  
Eames snorted in derision at that, “Think the drinks gone to your head love, anyone who could get taken out by a snot-nosed brat like Luke Skywalker definitely does not deserve to be a contender.”  
  
Arthur shook his head, the movement making the room spin slightly and he grabbed the table for support before continuing, “Not that one,” he dared move a hand from the table to point at Eames and then immediately regretted it, “The God-Emperor of Mankind of course!” He moved the hand back to the table for much needed support once he felt his point had been made.  
  
“I am defeated, I am slain. Your knowledge of geekery clearly far exceeds my own,” Eames put his hand dramatically over his heart, almost falling off his chair as he did so, and Arthur felt a stab of victory that he wasn't the only one somewhat worse for wear from the drink.  
  
It was late, long after the meal and the short speech, mercifully so Eames had described it, but frankly Arthur only cared that it was over and Cobb had known full well that he was hardly going to compose a epic for them on a days notice. Somehow he had gravitated towards Eames table over the course of the evening, something he blamed on his repeated attempts to escape the clutches of Mal's gaggle of nieces and their instance in dragging him to the small dance floor that had inventively, and in Arthur's opinion unnecessarily, been created through the careful rearrangement of the multitude of tables and chairs littering the brasserie.  
  
Which was how the two of them found themselves, copious glasses of wine and even more shots of whiskey later, involved in what had to have been the nerdiest conversation Arthur had had since high school. It was strangely enjoyable.  
  
Their conversation, argument really, was interrupted briefly by one of the restaurant staff trying to clean around them, and Arthur noticed that they were two of the last stragglers left. Taking the hint, he got up and pulled his coat on, and only halfway registering when Eames mirrored his actions, continuing their previous argument as he did so, conveniently ignoring the fact that he'd admitted defeat less than a minute previously, “Anyway love, you've shot yourself in the foot with that one by your own rules, no gods.”  
  
The forger pronounced the words profoundly, as if imparting some great fact of the universe and Arthur could feel a smile twitching at his lips as he replied dryly, “I wasn't aware this particular competition had any rules, other than the participants had to be fictional or dead.” He staggered slightly over the steps leading down to from the restaurants entrance and was grateful when his companion in drunkenness put out an arm to steady him, even if he was somewhat irritated by its necessity.  
  
“And yet you wouldn't let me have God, who I'm certain qualifies on at least one of those counts. That hardly seems fair to me.” Eames was pouting as he said it and it made him look all of two, a fact that Arthur was swift to point out to him. He was less quick to point out that the Brit still had his hand on the small of his back, secretly enjoying the warmth from the contact that was seeping through his thick woollen coat.  
  
The argument continued as they made their way back to Arthur's hotel, a testament to how drunk he was that the point man didn't at any point register that he had no idea where Eames was staying or even if it was in the same direction. It was even more of a testament that, when they got there, instead of sending his drinking partner on his way, or, given his lack of steadiness on his feet, calling him a cab, Arthur invited him in for a night cap instead.  
  
From then on it was rather inevitable that they would gravitate from arguing to kissing, to desperately trying to divest each other of their clothing as they made their way to the bed. Arthur had a vague thought during the process that in the morning he was going to mourn the destruction to what was, at the time, his only tailored suit. That thought fled soon after when Eames did _that_ thing with his tongue and the only thing left in his mind was the necessity to be naked right now.  
  
++++  
  
Arthur awoke the next morning to the feeling of a warm body next to him, a strong arm slung over his chest. His head was fuzzy and his stomach churned and he had the sneaking suspicion he might still be drunk from the night before.  
  
He cracked open his eyes briefly, wincing at the sunlight streaming in through the curtains and was vaguely surprised to see the familiar surroundings of his hotel room. He was usually considerably more conscientious about ensuring that he never took his bed-partners back to anywhere which could compromise him. The only conclusion was that he must truly have been drinking far too heavily last night and although part of him knew he should be worried about this particular security breach, the even bigger part of him, which was still enjoying itself on the whiskey's he'd imbibed the night before, couldn't quite bring himself to care.  
  
He snuggled back down into the warm bed, hiding from the sunlight and dozing gently whilst his mind worked on achieving a status somewhat similar to wakefulness. Waking up in another man's arms was an uncommon but not entirely unfamiliar sensation. Arthur liked to consider himself a conscientious bed-partner, he choose his sexual partners carefully, always ensured that they were fully aware of the limited temporal nature of the arrangement and, when amenable he usually made sure that breakfast was on the cards.  
  
However as the events of the previous night slowly percolated into clarity, Arthur's eyes snapped open, suddenly wide awake, as he recalled the identity of the other occupant of his bed. Eames.  
  
Oh. Fuck.  
  
He extricated himself carefully from the sleeping man's arms, praying he didn't wake him. He resolutely told himself it wasn't panic which fuelled his escape. He just didn't think he could face the forger right now, not after the other man made him come so completely undone the night before.  
  
Maybe it was a little bit of panic, a tight knot of dread at the way the insufferable Brit got so completely under his skin, made him loose his control. The idea of anyone, anyone at all, having that much hold over him was entirely unacceptable in Arthur's world view, especially anyone as infuriating, frustrating and downright irresponsible as Eames.  
  
Dressing quietly, he picked up his suitcases, already packed in preparation for his flight back to LA later on in the day. Looking back at the still sleeping forger, he felt a twinge of something unidentifiable, or more something he didn't want to identify, deep in his chest. Making sure to leave the other man the key, he made his exit, firmly telling himself he wasn't running away. He was pretty sure that he was convincing absolutely no one, least of all himself.  
  
Paris, January, 2006: Eames.  
  
Eames awoke to what felt like the entire cast of Riverdance having a rehearsal inside, no on top of, his head. He risked opening his eyes a crack, wondering where on earth he'd managed to end up this time. The light from the room's large window, muted even as it was by the curtains, still managed to send sharp stabbing pains through his head, as if a thousand needles were being pushed into his eyeballs, through his brain and out the other side.  
  
Shielding his eyes as best he could he glanced round, he was in a hotel room, a nice one by the looks of it, and alone. Seeing that there didn't appear to be any immediate danger to life nor limb, he collapsed back down into the bed, vowing not to emerge until the apocalypse destroyed the world and something far more pleasant had been created to take its place.  
  
The particular plan worked for all of ten minutes before his stomach, recently awakened and realising the toxic levels of alcohol had gone into it the night before, decided to rebel and send him staggering towards the bathroom. After emptying what remained in his stomach, a particularly nice entrecôte steak from the wedding reception the night before, as it so happened, he staggered back towards the bed.  
  
As he picked his way through his clothing from the night before, strewn haphazardly across the floor, he collapsed into bed, some still functioning part of his mind registering the important fact that the evidence of the room indicated both that at least two parties had been engaged in possibly some quite spectacular horizontal gymnastics, and he knew it had to be spectacular if he'd been involved, and that all but one of these parties had since vacated the room. He filed this information away to deal with when the world, or at least his own body, didn't hate him quite so much, and dozed back off to sleep.  
  
His second awakening was somewhat less brutal, although by no means without pain. Once his mind had made its way halfway back to consciousness and a glass of water had resolved at least part of the vile taste in his mouth, he attempted a valiant assault on his memories with the aim of reminding himself exactly what it was that put him in this state in the first place. Ah yes, Cobb and Mal's, sorry Mrs Cobb's, wedding and of course Arthur looking delectable as always in an exquisitely tailored suit, and really the boy should buy more of those because off-the-rack just didn't do him justice.  
  
He could recall the meal, excellent Parisian fare, something that in Eames' experience was more rare than it had a right to be given the capital's reputation, but afterwards everything became somewhat hazy. He had a vague recollection of getting into an argument with Arthur as to whether God counted as a fictional character or not, although for the life of him he couldn't actually recall the context. In fact almost all of what little memories he had of the evening seemed to include Arthur.  
  
Even as he mulled over the implications of this particular factoid, he staggered up towards the small, and frankly rather inadequate, tea making facilities provided with the room which is when he saw the keycard with the small note attached to it in the point man's unmistakable precise script.  
  
In typically straightforward Arthur style it simply said, 'The room has been paid for. Check out is by two, make sure you drop the key at reception.'  
  
 _Oh_ , thought Eames as the implication sunk in. That just wasn't fair! The one time he actually managed to tempt the infuriatingly unreachable man into his bed and he couldn't remember a bloody thing.  
  
++++  
  
Budapest, September, 2006.  
  
He got the job offer whilst in Reno, a city which had many important advantages over Las Vegas, for a start it was classier, but most importantly much much fewer people knew him. Although, he mused carefully exploring his newly split lip, this particular fact was starting to change.  
  
The details were sparse, as to be expected on an unsecured line, merely a date, a place and the mentions of a six figure recompense at the end. Although the extractor in question did give him pause, the price attached would have won him over even if he wasn't bored out of his mind, a state which usually lead to him indulging in his, proving to be, highly expensive gambling habit. Not that he was going to let his prospective employer know this, and so it was only after a period of careful consideration that he accepted the job.  
  
He met the extractor, Natashya, in Budapest two days later. She was probably best described as unremarkable, a description she herself would probably embrace. She looked plump, what would under most circumstances be described as 'big boned', plain faced, with a quiet, unassuming manner and a frumpy dress sense. Essentially she appeared to be that invisible girl at the back of the class that few people noticed and even less remembered.  
  
Eames, having worked with her before, was more than aware that appearances could be deceiving.  
  
“Natashya, delightful to see you as always,” he exclaimed when he saw her, moving to draw her into an encompassing hug, kissing both cheeks in classic Russian style. She returned the greeting and he could feel the pure muscle underneath her apparently padded exterior.  
  
“Eames, glad you could make it,” her English had a completely unremarkable American accent, the type that wouldn't be out of place on a US cable news anchor. “Come, I'll take you to our offices and give you all the gossip.” Only slight differences in her phrasing marked our her native Russian heritage.  
  
Their 'offices' turned out to be in an old abandoned, and somewhat run-down, apartment building on the once-oppulant Buda side of the city. The workspace itself was set in a familiar pattern, one wall given over to pictures of the mark and relevant information, tables pilled high with files and laptops, a dream area with a small arrangement of sofas and armchairs around a halfway broken coffee table holding the PASIV device and the small kitchen apparently taken over as a workshop by Natashya's chemist husband, Illya. Eames raised an eyebrow slightly at that, the first clear indication that this job was going to be somewhat more than just run of the mill, because the small blond wouldn't leave his comfortable lab in Moscow for anything less.  
  
“So,” he drawled looking around, “who's delightful mind are we invading this week.”  
  
Natashya pointed at the central glossy picture on the wall, “Piotr Gorbech, Russian, ex-GRU. He runs guns, drugs and girls across the border between Ukraine and Hungary. Our employer wants to know his routes.”  
  
Eames lounged down on the sofa, stretching out after his flight and trying to look nonchalant at the prospect of getting involved in the internal politics of the Russian mafia. Instead he asked, “Which doesn't exactly explain why you've hired someone of my not inconsiderable talents.” Forging may not have been quite a unique skill anymore, thank the Americans for leaking the technology's existence for that one, but since Eames had little to no modesty, he was happy to admit he was still the very best in the field.  
  
“He also runs an illicit dreaming business. Our employer forgot to mention, which is a shame or I would have put the price tag up.” She sounded understandably quite put out since the expense of hiring a forger was no doubt eating into her profit margin on this job.  
  
“Wonderful, I do so hate going into the minds of experienced dreamers, they're always far too aware. I hope you have someone good on point at least.” Natashya was one of the rare extractors who didn't run with a standard team, so you could never quite be sure who she'd have working for her. She claimed it was so that she could get the right team to fit the job, frankly Eames suspected it was because under that fluffy exterior she was a paranoid bitch who could never trust anyone enough to form a permanent working relationship.  
  
She sounded somewhat dismissive as she said, “I've not worked with him before. He seems competent enough.” She turned to him as if something had just occurred to her, a gesture Eames was certain was deliberate, “In fact, I believe you've worked with him before. Name of Arthur.”  
  
Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Not that Arthur was freelancing, Eames was well aware that his employment with the Cobbs was far from an exclusive arrangement. More it was the fact that the precise, careful, cautious point man would take a job with an extractor who was quite so dangerous for her teammates health as Natashya. Since desperation was unlikely to be Arthur's primary motivation, Eames could only conclude that he had more of a risk-taking nature than the forger had given him credit for.  
  
Not that he let any of that show on his face, so instead he replied equally nonchalantly “Oh, I'd go so far to say he's bloody good at his job, if you can get past the distinct lack of personality.”  
  
Natashya laughed and Eames felt somehow like he'd just passed a test, he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know what would happen if he'd failed, “He wasn't quite so complementary about you.”  
  
“Well the boy never was one for recognising talent.” He couldn't help be wonder exactly what Arthur had been saying about him, if his usual less than complementary assessments about his professionalism were tinged with something worse after the night they'd shared. He wasn't entirely certain why he cared either.  
  
It was less than an hour later when the man in question walked through the door, he looked thoroughly unimpressed by either Eames' presence or the two guns which ended up pointed at him instinctively when he opened the door.  
  
“Mr Eames,” he nodded in greeting, his voice formal, professional as if greeting a client or business partner.  
  
So that was the way he was going to play it, Eames had other ideas, “Arthur, darling, how wonderful to see you again.” He gave the man in question his most winning grin. Arthur distinctly did not look impressed. Oh well, he would just have to try harder, see if he could make the delicious point man twitch.  
  
++++  
  
Over the next weeks he tried everything he could to break through Arthur's impassive resolve. Teasing, flirting, touching, he bought the infuriating man presents, flowers, coffee in the morning and sandwiches at lunchtime. It was entirely to see if he could get a reaction from the other man, with a possible end goal of at some point tempting him back to his bed for a single repeat performance that he might actually remember this time.  
  
He got nothing. Nothing except increasingly glacial glares and an impressive bruise when he had made the unfortunate error of sneaking up on the other man unannounced, and really the boy was far more twitchy about that sort of thing than was healthy, even given their chosen profession. The flowers ended up in the bin, the presents return unopened, the sandwiches discarded in the kitchen and the coffee, well the coffee did end up drunk but only because even Arthur's enmity for him probably couldn't bring the caffeine-addicted point man to throw away perfectly good coffee.  
  
“Really Arthur, you must learn to relax sometime,” Eames commented one day after seeing Arthur pinching the bridge of his nose in an obvious attempt to battle the stress headaches he was sure the overworked point man was feeling. “Allow me to help.”  
  
He moved up behind Arthur, visible all the while because he wasn't going to make that mistake twice, to massage his shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the tension thrumming through the younger man's body. He felt a small thread of victory when Arthur relaxed slightly in the gesture.  
  
His success lasted less than a second however before the point man abruptly stood up and pulling away. “Some of us have work to do,” he said, in sharp, clipped tones.  
  
The blank, unfeeling mask was back in place, the moment long gone, suppressed underneath layers of cold hard professionalism. Eames felt like screaming in frustration and wondered why the bloody hell he was even bothering. Except he'd tasted it once, tasted it and couldn't remember and the allure of the unknown drew him like a moth to a candle flame  
  
Eames never had been good at staying away from the forbidden fruit. Shame said fruit, no pun intended of course, currently despised him.  
  
++++  
  
The tension between the two of them was so obvious that everyone noticed it, or more to the point felt the need to comment on it, because really they would have had to be blind not to notice it from day one.  
  
Eames had just been summarily ejected from Arthur's subconscious during a training run in a particularly vicious manner. Not that Arthur's subconscious was an overly pleasant place under even the best of circumstances, which of course was why they were training there in the first place, ensuring they were prepared for whatever level of militarization the mark could throw at them.  
  
As he returned to consciousness he could hear retching from elsewhere in the room, their architect, Paul Strand, no doubt and really, it wasn't as if he'd been the one to get torn apart piece by piece. Which was somewhat unfair, because the quiet unassuming Aussie, although an experienced dream architect was not an experienced extractor and had never had the joys of dealing with hostile projections before, especially not ones belonging to a particularly militarized, resentful, uptight and downright vindictive subconscious as Arthur's.  
  
Of course it didn't help they were trying out a new sedative of Illya's, designed to enhance dream sensations, pleasurable or otherwise. Having your intestines ripped out and used as a garrotte hurt like a bitch at the best of times, it really didn't need to be enhanced any more, in Eames' not inconsiderable opinion.  
  
“You know Arthur,” he commented once his breathing was back to normal, “I'm beginning to think your subconscious doesn't like me.”  
  
“You'd be right.” Arthur responded shortly, the added 'so Fuck Off' implied strongly by the tone, rising swiftly for the over-stuffed armchair he'd appropriated for dreaming. Arthur refused to look him in the eye even as he strode from the room and the forger wondered if it was just wishful thinking that the point man seemed as disturbed by the way the dream ended as the rest of them.  
  
“Remind me what you did to piss him off so much so I can avoid making the same mistake,” Paul asked once he'd recovered. He did genuinely seem concerned about the prospect of attracting the point man's ire.  
  
“Clash of personalities I guess,” Eames kept his voice light as he shrugged, as if to say 'your guess is as good as mine.'  
  
“Some personalities,” the architect muttered.  
  
++++  
  
Despite the tension between them, and Arthur's unsubstantiated aspersions about his professionalism, the job itself went well, up to a point, despite the fact it was being conducted over two levels and necessitating the mark to voluntarily enter the second level. Unfortunately that point happened to be whilst Eames was orchestrating a, if he may say so himself, masterful distraction of the mark whilst wearing a particularly curvaceous brunette.  
  
Frankly, Eames blames whatever chemicals Illya put together to create his particular compound, or possibly whatever he did to it so that it only became noticeable on the second level, where they were giving the client a 'demonstration' of this new 'ecstasy dreaming'. Either way, the alternative that Eames' own skills were slipping was frankly beyond the question, and so he was happy to say that it resolutely not his own fault when he glanced over his shoulder to follow the horrified, not to mention angry, gazed of the mark and see his own, distinctly masculine face staring back at him, mocking him and his carefully laid plans. Bastard.  
  
He was up and moving before the mark had time to register what had happened, attempting to escape the room and put a bit of distance between himself and the distinctly pissed off mafia boss. He wasn't fast enough, and pain blossomed in his face as it was slammed into the wall, a grabbed arm and his own momentum acting as leverage.  
  
Eames' head rang, the pain pounding through his temples magnified by the drug pumping through his veins, momentarily stunning him. He tried to reach for his gun, but in his current state, the mark effortlessly grabbed it and tossed it aside, slamming his head into the wall for a second time for good measure and Eames started wishing he'd paid more attention to the bits of the briefing where Arthur was telling them about the fact that Piotr Gorbech had had special forces training.  
  
You didn't need to be a forger to read the rage on the man in question's face, it was clear that the idea that someone, anyone, might be invading his mind had him more than a little incensed. The Russian went in for another blow and Eames just barely managed to scramble out the way, lashing out with his fist and rewarded with a cry of pain. Knowing he still needed to buy them time, he ran. He barely made it to the door when the mark, clearing having recovered somewhat quicker from the blow than it had taken Eames, and really what do they feed them in the Russian army, had the temerity to shoot him in the knee.  
  
He was not ashamed to admit he screamed, the pain was so overwhelming he could feel the edges of his vision beginning to blacken. It worse even than during their practice runs into Arthur's mind, because apparently that second level made all the difference. A small detached part of his brain made a mental note to beat their chemist round the head with this fact when he got out of here. He tried to pull himself back to awareness, registering the fact that he was currently slumped in the middle of the floor, blood pooling from his knee and the, apparently rather vindictive mark staggering to his feet, gun in his hand and clearly in the mood for round two.  
  
He was vaguely aware of the door slamming open and Arthur striding in looking for all the world, in Eames' pain-addled brain, like an avenging-angel. He would have almost smiled at the imagery if he wasn't certain that moving his face would hurt terribly, so settled for just staring in relief. Thankfully, having appraised the situation, said angel was quick to put him out of his misery with a bullet to the head, an expression which might pass for worry on his face.  
  
Eames last thought before waking was that maybe he did care, and he wasn't altogether certain why that particular fact gave him a distinct moment of panic.  
  
++++  
  
The extraction succeeded despite the massive cock-up, or possibly because of it, the mark being so concerned when he got up to the next level, reality as far as he was concerned, with tracking down Arthur and Eames, he entirely ignored the extractor as she carefully pilfered all his closely guarded secrets.  
  
They scattered as soon as the job was over, each trying to make their way out of the city, and the country, by the quickest means possible.  
  
It was as a result pure dumb luck when barely three days later, Eames spotted the well-dressed point man sitting in one of the many coffee shops littering the crowded departure lounge at Charles De Gaulle airport.  
  
Taking the fact that there were no other free tables as a clear sign from fate, he headed over to the where the point man was sitting asking politely, as if they were complete strangers, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”  
  
Arthur looked up from his book with surprise, which morphed briefly into a scowl before returning to a polite indifference as befitting the fiction of their identities. Eames could almost visibly see him struggling with the urge to say 'Yes' before his manners got the better of him and he wordlessly gestured to the chair as if to say 'be my guest', before returning to his reading.  
  
Eames was not one to be ignored, so after saturating his coffee with considerably more sugar than was healthy, he asked, “So, what's an attractive man like you doing drinking coffee all on his lonesome then?” He gave him one of his less suggestive looks, considerably more appropriate for the mixed company they were in than his usual attempts.  
  
A frown creased his companion's forehead at his intrusion, and he replied simply, “I'm traveling on business.” Arthur, it seemed, wasn't in the mood to play.  
  
On the other hand he had neither left nor told him to fuck off yet, albeit probably using more polite terms as their status as 'strangers' would dictate, so Eames took that as encouragement enough and attempted to continue with his airport seduction routine.  
  
“What business would this be? No wait, don't tell me, let me guess,” he paused just long enough, trailing his eyes up and down the other man's figure as if contemplating the options. It's possible he paused slightly longer than necessary, but really, it was a very nice view, the other man in soft grey business suit, top button undone, tie slightly askew from traveling. “I'd say you must be an accountant? A lawyer? I know. A secret agent!” It was possibly his imagination but he could swear he saw the infuriatingly impassive mask crack slightly on the last one, a small twitch of a smile, gone in a blink.  
  
“Banking” Arthur finally cut him off. Eames pretended to contemplate the answer, as if it was some big reveal rather than simply one of the many lies making up the cover the other man happened to be using at this instant.  
  
Eames was silent for a minute or two, perfectly calculated to let the silence become expectant, uncomfortable. Although if Arthur was playing by the rules of normal social interaction he certainly wasn't giving any indications. Then he plastered on a gently teasing smile and said, “This is the part where you reciprocate and try to guess what I do.”  
  
He was mildly surprised when instead of dismissing the implied question, Arthur instead looked at him. It was a piercing, searching gaze, as if weighing him up carefully, contemplating the answer. “Marketing,” he said finally, a statement not a question and Eames took great delight in shaking his head in negative, a grin on his face. “Journalist,” another head shake, and Arthur glanced up and down him again, reassessing, “Well I suppose with those clothes you could be a circus clown.” The answer was given completely deadpan, and it took Eames a couple of seconds to realize the unflappable point man had actually cracked a joke.  
  
Eames was definitely taking that one as a victory.  
  
Grinning, he responded, “Actually, I work in fashion,” just to see the impeccably dressed man's reaction. Yup, definitely a twitch of a smile at that.  
  
Arthur snorted, responding dryly, “No one said that fashion was the same thing as style.”  
  
Eames hadn't realised how much he'd missed the point man's scathing wit and dry humour over the course of the previous job and he was almost disappointed to hear his flight being called barely ten minutes later. On impulse he grabbed the cardboard brand loyalty card the server had insisted on giving him with his drink and fished a pen out of his pocket. Arthur was looking at him with a slightly bemused expression, a raised eyebrow serving as a question. Eames just grinned back, as he wrote a number quickly on the back of it.  
  
“This is me I'm afraid darling, lovely meeting you,” he got up to leave, leaning in closer before he did to drop the small square of cardboard into the other man's lap, “If you ever decide to take that stick out of your arse, you know who to call.” With that he turned and walked away, not daring to glance back and see the other man throw the card away.  
  
Which was a shame, because if he had, he would have seen the point man glance down at the card in slight confusion for a moment, before folding it carefully and secreting it in his wallet, the beginnings of an exasperated smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case people are wondering, the God-Emperor of Mankind comes from [Warhammer 40,000](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/TabletopGame/Warhammer40000?from=Main.Warhammer40000). Arthur always struck me as far more likely to have been into sci-fi and wargames when younger than Eames.


	3. 2007

London, 1st January, 2007: Eames  
  
Eames didn't make it home for Christmas, despite his mother's urgings, but he did make it back for New Year's Day, which he hoped would make it up to her. It wasn't actually his fault this time, December had seen freezing fog moving over the country, shutting down Heathrow almost entirely over the holiday period and leaving New Year's Eve as pretty much the only date left he could a flight out of Sydney.  
  
After the interminably long flight, he eventually made it in to London by early afternoon, navigating the tube network almost on autopilot, wearily heading into London before grabbing a local train North, to the closest village to his childhood home. It was barely twenty minutes off the M25 but might as well have been the middle of nowhere for its ease of accessibility by public transport. The journey is mercifully quiet at least, most of his fellow travellers even more bleary eyed and nursing hangovers from the previous night's revelries.  
  
The weather was typically cold and damp when he got off the train and he hoped that whoever Mother had roped into picking him up wasn't late. Fucking England he thought viciously, stamping his feet to try and warm himself up and vowing to make sure to head off somewhere warm, preferably in the Southern hemisphere, as soon as the requisite week at home was over.  
  
Thankfully, he spotted his brother's brand new BMW as soon as he stepped out the station. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight, his brother never had been one for subtlety. Still, it was the only lift he was going to get, so he wandered over to it, placing his suitcases in the boot before sliding into the passenger seat.  
  
“Richard,” he nodded at his brother, “New car I see.” The man looked the same as he had for the last decade, balding, slightly overweight and and wearing an obviously expensive but badly fitting suit, the result of his brother repeated insistence that his tailor measured his waist wrong.  
  
“James,” he replied similarly, “same old attitude I see.” Eames smirked at his brother in that lazy way he knew would annoy the hell out of him. They never had gotten on, a clash of personalities in no way aided by the decade or so age difference between them.  
  
This greeting pretty much set the tone for the rest of the, mercifully short, car journey, with only stilted attempts at small talk punctuating the otherwise strained silence. It was almost a relief when they pulled into the long driveway, road really, leading up to the house.  
  
“James!” his mother exclaimed as he made his way through the back door to the kitchen, pulling him into a big bear hug, kissing his cheek before taking a step back, hands still on his shoulders to look him over. “Are you eating enough dear?You're starting to look thin.”  
  
He had to smile at the question, it was the same thing that she always asked him, although this time she did have some cause to. He still hadn't quite recovered from a nasty bout of food poisoning whilst in Jakarta, not that he was going to tell his mother that, she'd just end up fussing. Instead he smiled and said, “Well you know how it is Mother, no one can quite come close to your wonderful cooking.”  
  
She snorted, expressing clearly her lack of amusement at his attempts to charm as only a blue-blooded member of the British peerage could, but she was smiling all the same, and Eames knew full well that he could have her wrapped around his little finger with just the right application of baby blues. “Talking of my cooking, there won't be any if you don't leave me in peace to get on with it. Go on shoo”  
  
He gave her a mock salute and heading out of the kitchen into the rest of the house, her voice called him back before he'd barely even gotten two steps, “James, do take your bags upstairs would you and stop them cluttering up the floor, you're back in your old room, the heating should be fixed in there by now.”  
  
“Yes, Mother,” he said rolling his eyes and going back to pick up his bags with an exasperated smile. Some things really never changed.  
  
“Thank you dear. Oh and James, if you see your brother, could you tell him to check the woodpile for the living room? We don't want to be getting wood in after its dark. He's probably watching TV in there with Susan.”  
  
He tried to suppress a shudder at the mention of his brother's wife, obnoxious, whiny, selfish and over-privileged, she unfortunately belong to one of the class who believed that just because her family's fortunes numbered in the millions it meant she was somehow innately superior to everyone else. He obviously didn't do a good job, judging by his mother's raised eyebrow, but since her own feelings about her daughter-in-law were in a similar range she didn't comment.  
  
“Where's Emms?” he called back to her as he left the kitchen.  
  
“She had to go into work for something or other. Poor thing, and on New Year's Day. Still, she promised she'd be back by dinner time.”  
  
She was, just. Coming in through the front door just as they were setting the table in the main hall. She kissed Mother in greeting, gave a wave and a nod to Richard and Susan before turning to Eames.  
  
“So, you finally made it then.” The words were entirely what he expected, the tone wasn't, considerably tighter and more annoyed and really, it was highly hypocritical of her if this was about missing Christmas.  
  
“Lovely to see you too, Emily,” he said with what he hoped was a winning smile. She didn't look impressed but was clearly unwilling to talk about whatever was bothering her with the rest of the family around and the next hour or so was filled with the familiar talk of life and travels, all with a subtly stilted veneer that somehow only he and Emily were actually aware of.  
  
She cornered him later in the larder, as he was decanting the wine for dinner, although she was conscientious enough to at least wait for him to finish and set back down the bottle before she slapped him. The gesture took him entirely by surprise, which was strange, because he was usually very good at spotting when women were winding up to slap him for some perceived slight or misdemeanor.  
  
“What the bloody hell was that for?” he demanded, his cheek still stinging. He resisted raising his arms in defence, his sister could be like a shark when angry, one sign of weakness and she'd go in for the kill.  
  
She was definitely angry now, hissing out, “Did you really think I wouldn't find out James?”  
  
“Find out what Em-i-ly?” He drew out all the syllables of her name as he said it in the exact way which had never ever failed to wind her up when they were children, “Frankly love, you're acting more like an angry lover than my sister.”  
  
She ignored his baiting, and he was beginning to have a bad feeling he knew exactly what this was about. Her next words confirmed it, “I'm talking about the fact that for some unknown reason my brother has decided become a thief, con artist., oh and not to mention mind-rapist. What the bloody hell were you thinking!”  
  
Eames decided to fall back onto the age old defence, deny everything. “Emily. I really don't know what you're talking about.” He tried to put all the bemusement of the thoroughly confused into his denial.  
  
She obviously wasn't buying it, but didn't labour the point. She took a deep breath, composing herself, and the anger was buried under a cold, hard mask. “I want you out of the country by tomorrow”  
  
Eames felt his own anger rise at that, where exactly did she get the right to order him around, “Really, love? Because I was thinking of staying for at least a few more days. You know how Mother is with her family affairs around Christmas.”  
  
“James. I'm telling you this because you are my brother. You need to be out of the country by tomorrow morning.” Her tone was the same but underneath the anger Eames could hear a thread of worry.  
  
There was clearly something more going on here and as much as part of Eames wanted to rebel against the idea of his sister forcing him out of the house, let alone the country, he hadn't survived this long by ignoring warnings of danger to his life or liberty, even ones from as disreputable sources as Emily. He nodded, resigned, “I'll leave this evening. Do give my apologies to Mother in the morning when she finds I'm gone.”  
  
++++  
  
Madrid, May, 2007  
  
The month after leaving London passed in a blur as he moved around from city to city, never staying more than a few days in any one place. He told himself it was to stay ahead of whatever potential pursuers might be out there, and had nothing at all to do with the loneliness of being cut off from home. Not that he ever contacted his family much if he could help it, but the fact was before he always knew he _could_ , a comforting ability now firmly denied to him.  
  
What little funds Eames had which weren't spent on travel were lost in casinos or in drink and by the time February rolled around, Eames was well and truly broke. He was in Algiers and despite the time of year there were just enough rich and stupid tourists around to tide him over for a short while, but it wouldn't last. He needed a job and he needed one quickly.  
  
Eames briefly contemplates calling Cobb, still, theoretically, on the legitimate side of dreamsharing and the blond architect did at least have a fixed number he could contact him on, a rarity in their field. Cobb also brought with him the advantage of seeing his lovely wife and even more gorgeous point man. However, they had always had a distinct, 'don't call us, we'll call you' relationship and calling him up now would stink of desperation.  
  
Of course the fact the other man did most of his work for the government also didn't help, it may not be the same government as the one currently looking for him, but chances are any call to Cobb would probably put him right back on the radar he wanted to avoid.  
  
Calling Arthur was a more viable option on that front, assuming he could dig a number out from his contacts, and really at that point he might as well use said contacts to find him a job. The idea however was strangely tempting for reasons he assured himself had entirely to do with the physical, after all he still hadn't gotten that repeat performance, and had nothing to do with wishing to see the annoyingly precise point man again.  
  
He resisted the urge, albeit after a good ten minutes of contemplation whilst he stared at his phone in the ratty, run-down hotel room he was soon to get thrown out of for being too poor to even afford this level of 'luxury'. He resisted mostly because he was certain that even more than Cobb, Arthur would interpret the call as desperation, and he would never hear the end of it.  
  
Instead he contented himself with sending out feelers, letting his contacts, the fixers and job brokers of the dream world, know that he was available and bored, because that sounded a lot better than desperate and broke.  
  
It didn't take long for a job offer to come in, he hadn't really expected it to. Despite the quick spread of the forging technique, and dreamsharing was still a young and dynamic enough field that innovations spread like wildfire, the number of forgers around who were actually competent could be counted on one hand. And of those, Eames was still the best.  
  
Of course not every extractor actually knew what to do with a forger, especially one as good as Eames, when they got him. He had ended up walking out of at least two jobs, without being paid, because the extractor obviously not only didn't know how to use him, but refused to listen to his suggestions of how he could. Frankly, if you were going to hire a professional, at a professional's fee, you could at least do them the courtesy of listening to what they say and Eames may have been broke, but he was not a masochist.  
  
Which didn't stop him taking a number of jobs which were, in hindsight, somewhat stupid but money was money, and there was something mildly thrilling about the danger involved. At least when there weren't people actively shooting at him in real life.  
  
He ended up in Madrid after one such a job, for Natashya as it happens, and by now, he thinks, he definitely should know better than to take jobs with crazy Russians who are probably freelancing for the Russian mob and playing all sides against the middle. Or at least that's the only explanation he can come up with for how the whole thing went so spectacularly, magnificently wrong.  
  
Not the extraction itself, oh that was pulled off almost to perfection, due, in no part to having the best forger in the business involved, but afterwards, when they woke up surrounded by angry men with big guns. Eames didn't stick around for explanations, as soon as he saw a chance he legged it, the vehement arguments in Russian offering enough cover that he got away with only a few bruises, oh and a fucking bullet wound in his arm.  
  
Next time he saw Natashya they were going to have _words_ , after he'd gotten the rest of his payment out of her.  
  
But in the meantime he was in Madrid, hiding from the attentions of the Russian mob, waiting for the heat to die down and his wound to heal. He hadn't chosen the city for any specific reason, it was just the third city he had ended up in after he was certain he'd lost the tail in Cairo and since he spoke passable Spanish and there was, this time of year, enough British tourists for him to both blend in and take advantage of, it seemed like an appropriate place to wait things out.  
  
Which was how he found himself sitting in a bar called _Bar de la Mancha_ , a deliciously tacky affair decked out in the theme of Don Quixote when he saw him again. The familiar dark hair and whip cord thin body dressed in a slightly less familiar short-sleeved summer shirt and brown slacks.  
  
Eames immediately dropped his initial plans for the evening, specifically plying his wounded bird act onto the bar's elderly female patrons, because if he had to have his arm in a sling, then it was going to have at least some use. Instead, he decided that he was going to spend the evening doing what had to be one of his favourite past-times, annoying Arthur. It wasn't his actual favourite of course, although of course the end goal was for Arthur to join him in that too, at least in an instance he could actually remember, and yes, that was still a sore point for him.  
  
Arthur, irritatingly aware of his surroundings, spotted him at pretty much the same time, a small but noticeable, at least to Eames, frown of annoyance appearing on his face. Throwing the delectable point man his most winning smile, he ordered Arthur a whiskey, on the rocks, because of the few things he did remember about Mal and Cobb's wedding was Arthur's taste for the drink, and himself a Gin and Tonic, because it had been a while.  
  
Carrying the drinks over to where Arthur was perched, pushing the whiskey over saying, “There you go, Arthur,” as if this wasn't the first time they'd seen each other in almost a year.  
  
“Eames, I'm working.” Arthur sounded exasperated but he wasn't throwing the drink back in his face, so Eames took that as tacit permission to join him.  
  
Eames followed his gaze to where a middle-aged, obviously wealthy, obviously plastic, woman was entertaining a gaggle of younger Spanish men at the bar. He raised an eye-brow, “So I can see love. You can thank me for helping your cover later. After all, a man sitting on his own in a bar is downright suspicious, especially one as attractive as yourself.”  
  
“You were sitting in a bar on your own,” Arthur points out, not unreasonably.  
  
“Well yes, but I was hardly planning on staying on my own for long.” He wiggled his eyebrows at his companion with almost comic levels of suggestibility and was rewarded with a snort of what could have been disbelief or probably disgust, but the point man doesn't deny the logic of Eames' words.  
  
Arthur goes back to watching the mark, studiously ignoring Eames and the forger contented for a few moments with sipping his G&T and admire the view. Soon enough however, he got bored, “So, what impossible dreams are you going to be dreaming this time?”  
  
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, “This is hardly the place to discuss that.”  
  
“Oh, I don't know, I'd say this is the perfect place to dream the impossible dream, to fight the impossible foe. To bear with unbearable... Ow.” The final exclamation came from Arthur kicking him under the table.  
  
“I hardly think this was quite what Cervantes had in mind.” he responded drily, but there was definitely amusement underscoring his voice.  
  
“Ah,” Eames drawled knowingly, “but is it what the subject of your intense observation has in mind?”  
  
Arthur looked over at the woman, briefly contemplating the query, before shaking his head, “Somehow I don't think its the décor that attracts her.”  
  
Eames looks at where the women seems to be paying considerable, very close, attention to a hunky twenty-something Spaniard and had to agree, “Shame, I could really see you as Don Quixote”  
  
“Eames,” and there is more than a hint of exasperation in his voice.  
  
“Or maybe Dulcinea,” continues Eames as if seriously contemplating the issue, “Will you be my Dulcinea, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur raised as eyebrow at that, a highly amused smirk on his lips, “Dulcinea, the imaginary unobtainable woman. Yes, I think I could manage that one quite well.”  
  
“You wound me, Arthur, truly you do. Here I am, comparing you to an image of sweetness and perfection and you shoot me down.” He gives the point man a mock pout as he speaks.  
  
“Have you ever even read the book?” His eyes was firmly fixed on the mark sitting at the bar directly behind the forger as he spoke, and Eames was half annoyed, half impressed at the man's work ethic  
  
“I played Don Quixote in the Man of La Mancha in school, if that counts. Of course the boy playing Dulcinea was no where near as attractive as you,” which was a lie, but really Arthur didn't need to know about the blowjobs he'd exchanged Edwin during rehearsals. Come to think of it, that was probably why he remembered so little of the plot.  
  
“It doesn't.” Arthur said firmly, albeit with the amused smile firmly in place, finally drawing his eyes back to the forger.  
  
“Spoilsport.”  
  
Eventually of course the mark left, and Arthur with her, but he looked almost half way apologetic as he did so and Eames distinctly counted that as a victory. The mark was back the next day, as was Arthur, and so was Eames.  
  
It was on the second day that Arthur asked him about the arm and for some reason Eames didn't feel the need to play it for sympathy, although the chance was clearly there, his companion's well-concealed but in no way hidden well enough to fool Eames. Instead, he brushed it off, claiming it was a graze, a prop more for show than anything else. He could tell the point man wasn't fooled but he dropped the issue anyway.  
  
Eames was under no illusions that Arthur wasn't perfectly capable of finding out what had happened if he really wished to. Indeed, two weeks later he'd end up hearing that the Russians ended up getting arrested by INTERPOL for arms smuggling, somehow he doubted that was a coincidence.  
  
By the third day, he found to his surprise that he was actually more interested in the conversation than the chance of getting Arthur into bed and they spent the evening discussing the relative merits of Surrealist painters.  
  
On the fifth day, the mark wasn't there, Arthur was. Eames was, to say the least surprised, and somewhat touched.  
  
The elephant in the room hung over their conversation all evening, muting the tone and rendering awkward an otherwise comfortable interaction. Eventually Arthur tackled the large grey mastodon head on, venturing an almost nonchalant explanation, “I'm flying out tomorrow morning.”  
  
Surprisingly Eames' first thought at the news was how much he'd miss the other man's company rather than to morn the lost chance at seduction. In fact, judging from the expression on Arthur's face, Eames felt that if he wanted to, he could probably tempt the point man to his bed tonight. For some reason however, he didn't, instead ordering another round of drinks and starting into a discussion of the impact of the Peninsular War and the relative merits of Suchet as a counterinsurgency commander.  
  
++++  
  
Arthur: Boston, October, 2007  
  
“We don't need a forger on this job,” Arthur insisted for what felt like the twelfth time that day, in reality it had only been three, not that he'd been keeping count, but the argument was beginning to feel tired and repetitive as if they'd been going through the motions a hundred times.  
  
Cobb, however, still refused to see sense, “This is a three person job Arthur.” As if he hadn't also made that argument a hundred times before.  
  
“You. Me. Mal. that makes three.” Arthur knew he was being pedantic, and stubborn, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Because Mal wouldn't be going in with them, being pregnant again and quite sensibly refusing to expose her unborn baby to the possible side-effects of Somnacin.  
  
Cobb looked as frustrated, as tired and drawn and he felt, yet for some reason persisted, probably because the man was as stubborn as Arthur himself, continued going through the motions “You know that's not what I meant. We need a third person under and we need a forger.”  
  
The worst of it all was that Cobb was right, this was going to be difficult to pull off even with three, impossible with two and a whole lot easier with a forger, but that meant calling Eames. Cobb was obviously thinking along the same lines because he squinted at him in that way he did when he was trying to make a point, “This is about Eames isn't it? Look, I know you don't like him, but he's the best there is.”  
  
“This is not about Eames.” The denial sounded hollow on his lips, because it clearly is.  
  
“Then you won't mind if I call him.” And really, Arthur had walked right into that one.  
  
He sighed in frustration, half throwing his hands up towards stalking over to the pile of paper work that was his desk, “Fine, call him, if you can find him.” Because he certainly wasn't going to help him, let the blond architect hunt down the elusive forger's location on his own if he wanted him so badly on the job.  
  
Arthur didn't want Eames on this job, didn't want to be on this job himself, certainly didn't want to be in this city, the one place he'd sworn to himself he'd never go back to, too filled with memories, to filled with people, a specific person, who might know him.  
  
He'd half considered turning it down when Cobb had offered it to him, merely on the basis of its location but he'd never turned down a job with the Cobbs before and to do so now would merely result in more questions. So instead he reminded himself that Boston was a big city and that statistically the chances of encountering someone he knew was infinitesimally small. Yeah, he wasn't convinced by that either.  
  
Cobb of course, played dirty, sending Mal to weasel Eames' location out of him, and of course the fact that Arthur always knew where the forger was and how to contact him was just good professional sense, after all he was the best forger going. He always had difficulty saying no to Mal at the best of times, and when she was there with the flush of pregnancy, it was even harder.  
  
In short by the end of the week, Eames was lazying across one of the chairs in their offices, a set of abandoned business premises well out of the way of prying eyes, taking up far too much space and making the spacious workspace seem crowded and close. Although that could just have been Arthur because Mal and Cobb certainly didn't seem to be having an issue with it.  
  
“You know,” the Brit said casually, as he sprawled on one of the office chairs strewn around the room, his feet already propped up on a, thankfully, unused desk, “I'm thinking of making a rule not to accept jobs before actually being told what they are.”  
  
“If you don't want the job, the door's over there, feel free to use it.” Arthur responded without looking up from the file, because if he looked him in the face, the forger might realise he didn't actually mean it.  
  
“Ah but darling, I'm here now, seems a shame not to at least tell me about the job.” And Arthur distinctly did not twitch at the pet name, and he'd take umbrage with anyone who said he did.  
  
Arthur risked a glance up at the forger, to see him staring intently at him, sitting slightly more upright, expression somewhere which could, if looked at from the right angle, pass for serious. He looked good, better than he had in Madrid, and Arthur couldn't help but feel a thread of longing. Reminding himself of the inevitable consequences, he firmly stamped down on such feelings, before dicing them into tiny pieces and then burning them for good measure.  
  
Clearing his throat he avoided the forger's far too knowing gaze and turned towards the whiteboard, already liberally scattered with pictures and facts written in three different sets of handwriting.  
  
“The subjects, Mark Gaitling, Sharon Thesselia and Tim Midway.” He pointed to each of their photos in turn, “Students at Boston University and card-carrying members of the United Anarchist Front.” Eames smirked at that and Arthur graced him with a wry smile in return, because the irony of the name was no doubt lost on its participants. “The society has generally been known for harmless pranks and the occasional campus protest, all talk, little action. However, a government agency which shall not be named has reason to suspect that these three's professed youthful anarchistic sympathies may actually be put into action.”  
  
“Let me guess, the fact that Mark Gaitling Snr is a senator and the Boston Thesselia's are one of the blue-blooded elites this country professes not to have is making life difficult for them. Little Tim Midway I imagine however is their preferred scapegoat, lacking as he is in family among the rich and powerful” Eames interjected almost lazily, and Arthur was reminded again exactly why this man was the best in his field.  
  
“Hardly, Mrs Midway is an AD in a sister agency and causing more headaches that the rest of them put together.” He shouldn't feel quite so satisfied about knowing more than Eames, this was his job, not a competition.  
  
“Ah, the joys of office politics pushing them to go freelance. Good thing for us really isn't it?”  
  
He nodded at the forger shortly, “Something like that. We'll need to extract from multiple targets in a short time frame with no room for error. Any indication on the part of the subjects that an extraction has happened then we don't get paid.”  
  
“And we get caught and they'll deny all knowledge, lovely. I hope the pay if we do succeed is at least lucrative”  
  
Arthur had to snort at that, “It's a government contract, so no. On the other hand, the fringe benefits are considerable.” They'd both freelanced for the governments on both sides of the Atlantic to know how these things worked, keeping the authorities sweet was always worth it even if the money was poor.  
  
Eames took an obvious few moments to consider the issue, and Arthur wasn't certain whether the tension he felt was fear that he'd reject the job or accept it.  
  
Eventually the Brit nodded, standing up and clasping his hands together in the parody of an overly enthusiastic teacher trying to convince enthuse a unruly class into getting work done, “Right then, so how are the four of us going to do this then.”  
  
“Three. Mal's not coming under with us.” He didn't say, _which is why you are here_ but he was certain that the forger caught the implication perfectly.  
  
“Ahh,” He drawled out as if that explained everything, “So when's the latest Cobbling expected then?” And really Arthur hated being reminded of exactly how perceptive the infuriating Brit could be.  
  
++++  
  
It was inevitable really, given that they were doing reconnaissance on the marks at the same university his father had taught at that someone would recognise him. He may have changed a lot since his days as a shy, lanky teenager, for a start, he though bitterly, he didn't spend half his time covered in bruises. In fact these days he reckoned he'd gotten it down to a respectable 5%, and that was only because he found that occasionally getting into fights was a highly effective way of relieving tension.  
  
But, of course, if he wanted to avoided standing out like a sore thumb on the university campus, he had to dress more in keeping with an undergraduate student, albeit one at a prestigious private university, so here he was in a light white shirt, no tie of course, a sleeveless sweater and khakis. In honesty it was the sort of casual wear he preferred when not working, comfortable, practical, and just smart enough to pass in almost all occasions, but unfortunately it was also the sort of outfit that made him look about a decade younger.  
  
So it shouldn't have been a surprise when he heard a shrill, and familiar, woman's voice calling out to him as he made his way across campus. “Arthur? Arthur Miller? I do declare!”  
  
Arthur may not have been an accomplished liar as Eames, or even Cobb, but he had a highly effective poker face and he didn't even glance her way, ignoring her as if he didn't know exactly what she was talking about or to whom. Hopefully, the old busybody would take the hint, Dr Szanthis had been one of his fathers colleagues, a nice enough person but her affection for her father had rendered her completely and utterly oblivious, something Arthur thoroughly resented her for and placed her far down on the list of 'people he wanted to see'.  
  
He swiftly headed round a corner, exposing the ageing English Lit professor to all the techniques he'd learned over the years for loosing a tail. Soon her shouts were nothing but a distant echo and he leaned briefly against the wall, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back in frustration. That was a close call, far too close, and he vowed never to venture back onto campus again if he could help it. He had done all he needed in any case, shifting out which of their fellow students would be willing to give details for sufficient levels of money. Eames had somehow managed to get a visiting professor position in the English department and would supply the rest of the information to be gleaned around the university.  
  
He regretted not making more effort to dissuade her of his identity two days later whilst out getting coffee with Eames. Well not exactly getting coffee with Eames as that would imply that there had be a conscious decision for them both to go to the coffee-shop at the same time together. Rather the reality being that Arthur had encountered into the forger on his way to the offices in the morning and their conversation had resulted in them both arriving at the place at the same time, Eames waiting outside smoking whilst Arthur cued.  
  
Since he could, he took the time to admire the sight of the man whilst he waited for his order to be served, a guilty pleasure of allowing his eyes to trace the lines of his body leaning casually against a lamppost, observing intently the morning commuters.  
  
“Arthur?” He froze when he heard the voice, turning around slowly.  
  
“Dad.” He kept his voice cold, he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on him even as the panic rose and dammit, he knew fifty ways to kill a man with his bare hands, this old, frail university professor shouldn't be having this effect on him.  
  
“Dr Szanthis said she thought she'd seen you on campus, I had hoped you'd come here.” He said it matter of factly, as if he wasn't meeting his estranged son for the first time in almost a decade, his only concession to the fact a hand reached out to clasp his shoulder in what was no doubt meant to be a paternal gesture.  
  
Arthur flinched, he couldn't help it, the reaction was instinctive and he hated the man for making him feel this way. He needed to escape, one thankfully offered by the girl behind the counter informing him his coffees were ready.  
  
Grabbing them as if a lifeline, he pushed past his father and his clumsy attempts at pretence that he was anything other than a useless fucking parent, hissing in a low voice as he did so, “I have absolutely nothing to say to you.” Stalking out the coffee shop, he ignored his fathers demands for him to wait, polite demands of course, because the man was nothing if not proper in public, appearances must be kept after all, ones that usually turned ugly once in private.  
  
“You alright there love, you're looking a little pale. Wouldn't want you to faint on us or anything.” The words was teasing but his expression was more concerned, but they still made Arthur jump slightly, the presence of the other man entirely forgotten in his haste to remove himself from the vicinty.  
  
Covering up how shaken the encounter had obviously left him as best he could, Arthur mutterEd a quick, “I'm fine.”  
  
Taking his own coffee, black, two sugars, from the tray he thrust the rest of them at Eames, before continuing down the road, not even paying attention to whether the forger was following him. He needed time to pull himself together, he needed time alone, but failing that, he really needed Eames not to look at him with that concerned, puzzling look, as if he was trying to unravel him and figure out all his problems.  
  
++++  
  
He didn't go back to the coffee-shop for a week, making a ten minute detour in the morning to purchase thoroughly unsatisfying coffee from a Starbucks instead. The encounter had thrown him completely off his guard, breaking down all his carefully constructed resolve and leaving his mind feeling jagged and raw with unresolved emotions and memories. He suspected that if he still had the capacity to dream naturally, he'd be having nightmares, as it was he was merely avoiding sleep entirely.  
  
As a result, he was arriving at work earlier, walking the long way round to avoid any future possible encounters, and working later. It also meant that he didn't have the occasion to bump into Eames on his way in any more, not that this was ever a truly regular occurrence given his tendency towards early rising and the forger's tendency towards not. Still it had been happening more and more often, no doubt by some unknown design on the forgers part, another step in the man's plan to seduce Arthur back to his bed.  
  
Despite the obvious secondary motive, Arthur still found himself missing the company. Clearly Eames had noticed too, because after a week he cornered him in the warehouse, perching on the corner of his desk.  
  
“You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were avoiding me.” He said the words casually, but there was a sharpness underneath that Arthur couldn't quite decipher.  
  
Arthur looked up at him, frowning as he noticed he was sitting on some of his files, “I'm not avoiding you.” He truly wasn't either.  
  
Eames nodded, as if considering the words, “So, avoiding someone else then.” He leaned over snagging Arthur's coffee to take a sip, Starbucks logo clear on the side and gave an exaggerated grimace at the taste. Damn the man for being so perceptive.  
  
He fought to keep control, to keep his expression impassive as he responded, “They were burning the coffee.” It was a lie of course, but Arthur wouldn't give Eames anything that would allow him to pick him apart, find his weaknesses, his vulnerabilities. He didn't think he could stand the pity the forger would no doubt express.  
  
“Really,” his tone was dubious. “Well, I hope they sort out their coffee making soon, the change in caffine source seems to be affecting your work.”  
  
 _That_ hit him like a ton of bricks, anger rising, because how dare the man question his professionalism. Arthur was more than capable of keeping his personal life from affecting his work, the sleepless nights more than offset by the fact that he spent most of his days dreaming. He pushed Eames off the desk, grabbing one of his files from where he'd been sitting as an excuse, taking a level of satisfaction at the man's surprised expression. “The only thing affecting my work is you.”  
  
“If you say so, love, if you say so.” Eames was looking at him with that slightly concerned expression again and Arthur focused firmly on the page in front of him, details of Gatling and Thessalia's on-again, off-again sexual relationships.  
  
He waited until the man had left, wandering off to bother someone else no doubt, before he sighed, running his had through his hair. He needed some air.  
  
Mal tracked him down to the roof sometime later, it was somewhat inevitable that someone would, he'd been gone close to an hour, enjoying the comfort of being high enough up that he could see out over the city.  
  
He was glad it was Mal and not Cobb, or worse, Eames, because at least with Mal things were simple. There was no lingering awkwardness between employer and employee or worse no lingering feelings of affection, desire, or whatever the hell it was he felt for Eames, and he knew it was something, the whole reason he refused to sleep with the other man again, but he wasn't certain if he could put a label on it yet.  
  
He was aware of her presence as soon as she entered the roof, as she walked casually over towards the railing he was leaning against and looked out over the city with him, admiring the view.  
  
“I have never thought of many American cities as being attractive, but I admit Boston may change my opinion,” she eventually ventured after a few minutes contemplation. Arthur merely shrugged in response, the place was too wrapped up in memories for him to truly give it an objective evaluation.  
  
“So, I hear you are having issues with our local coffee shop?”  
  
“Eames told you.” He should have expected this really, the infuriating forger always took great pleasure in sharing newly gained insights into their marks, their colleagues, random people on the street, Arthur didn't know why he thought he'd be any different.  
  
Mal gently placed her hand on his arm, kindly ignoring the small instinctive flinch he seemed to have developed, or should that be rediscovered, over the past week. “He's worried about you Arthur, we all are.” She looked at him with one of her deep, sympathetic gazes, and all Arthur can really think is that he didn't realise he was being quite so obvious.  
  
“He shouldn't be, I'm fine.” The denial was automatic and he can tell she wasn't buying a word of it.  
  
“ _Evidément_. Who was he?” Because clearly Eames had decided to spill every single embarrassing detail of the encounter. Arthur vowed to shot him later, if the forger was lucky it would even be in a dream.  
  
“Who was who?” He didn't expect her to give up, not really and part of him didn't want her to, but he tried to buy himself time to steal himself for whatever was coming.  
  
“Arthur, _cher_ , don't be obtuse, it doesn't suit you.” Despite her slightly exasperated words, Mal's expression was sympathetic, open, and non-judgemental and there was a reason she was an excellent therapist, both in dreams and outside of them.  
  
He sighed and the silence stretched out, becoming uncomfortable as she waited him out, a tactic she used frequently when trying to get him to talk. He broke first, something was not a forgone conclusion since both of them possessing infinite reserves of patience, “My father.”  
  
Mal nodded, her gaze calm, “You do not have a good relationship with him.” Despite the fact he'd never told them anything about his family, it was a statement, not a question. But then, maybe because he'd never told them anything that the conclusion wasn't that much of a leap.  
  
Still, he gave a short, bitter laugh at the understatement, “You could say that. I've not seen him since I joined the army.” Since he ran away from home, he didn't say.  
  
“Ah,” and that's all there is to the conversation for a few moments, the sound hanging in the air between them. “There is never an easy answer, but it can help to have resolution. You cannot continue to ignore whatever this is, it is not good for you.”  
  
Arthur wasn't certain what to say to that, so he said nothing and they stood like that, in a somewhat uncomfortable silence, until eventually Arthur managed to drag out the motivation to head back in and get on with their work. Maybe Mal was right, he needed to deal with this, if nothing else because they all needed to be on the top of their games to if they were going to pull this job off and Arthur was so far from that at the moment it wasn't even funny.  
  
++++  
  
He approached dealing with his unresolved family issues the same way he did everything else, with a plan, steps all set out clearly in his mind, contingencies anticipated and accounted for. It still took him another week however before he managed to drag up enough courage to put the plan into action, before he was sitting in the front room of the large detached house that was his childhood home, staring uncomfortably at his father seated in the chair opposite him.  
  
The comforting ritual of awkward greetings long gone, the silence now stretch out between them and Arthur took advantage of the moment to study the man in front of him. He was dressed as always, with tweed jackets and starched shirts, the epitome of an emeritus college professor, but underneath that he looked tired, drawn and frail, a mere shadow of the man who for years had haunted his nightmares, at least whilst he still had them.  
  
His father broke first, “You're looking good, son. Life been treating you well?” The attempt at small talk was painful, and this wasn't why Arthur was here.  
  
“You don't,” The reply was sharp, and he felt a stab of satisfaction at the flash of pain across his face.  
  
His father's reply was equally sharp, already falling back into their old routine after years apart, “Cancer will do that to you.”  
  
Arthur just snorted at that, looking away, studying the pictures from his childhood on the walls. If his father was trying to surprise him with the news, he would be disappointed.  
  
Finally, his father sighed, a deep exhaustion replacing the previous anger. “I just wanted to have the chance to see you before I died. To... to tell you I was sorry.”  
  
Arthur couldn't help it, he let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Oh this was too good, “Is that what this is then? An attempt for absolution before you died so you could good to the grave with a clean conscience.”  
  
The oh so familiar anger was back, the provocation working exactly as he had expected it to, exactly as it always had, proving that any talk of guilt was merely lip service to assuage fears of divine judgement after death, because his father had been nothing if not a good catholic. “You always did have a smart mouth on you boy.” The arm was up and moving as he spoke, and it was mere child's play for Arthur to grab it in mid-air, an almost instinctive reaction to violence.  
  
“Don't.” He push his father back into his seat, seeing him for what he was, a broken, bitter old man who had no more hold over him. Not any more. “You never could stand that I was smarter than you could you.”  
  
“Maybe it was the fact you were responsible for your mother's death I could never stand.” On the other hand maybe he could still hurt him. With words at least, even if no longer with fists.  
  
Arthur stood up sharply, his face tight and cold. He didn't have to stay for this. “I was six,” he ground out, “It was not my responsibility. It was yours. But blaming me was always easier wasn't it?”  
  
Even as he was heading towards the door, he heard his father calling to him behind him, “Arthur. Son... please.” It was that last word that made him pause, because his father had never said please to him before in his life. He turned around, taking in the defeated, broken expression on the man's face. “Please, tell what I can do to make this right.”  
  
In that moment he knew with certainty, “There is nothing you can do to make this right.” Arthur took a final moment to look at his father, to look around the room with so many memories some good, mostly bad, before sighing and continuing more softly, “Goodbye dad.”  
  
With that he left, pushing past his brother, all glares and anger at how he'd treated the dying man, because his brother had always taken his father's side. But then his brother hadn't born the brunt of the man's anger, and had no right to judge him, none at all.  
  
He walked back to the offices afterwards, using the time to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. By the time he got back, he felt a sense of control that he hadn't felt since he'd started this job, had never truly felt outside of dreams at all. When he got back, Eames was waiting for him at his desk with a coffee, black with two, which he handed to him wordlessly, a strange smile on his face that could have almost been sympathetic, before heading back to his own workspace, leaving the point man staring after him in stunned silence, strangely touched by the gesture.  
  
It was almost two months later when he read about the death of Professor Thomas Miller, esteemed history professor at the University of Boston and loving father, wasn't that one a joke, in the obituary section of the local paper. The funeral was on Saturday, the day before the job.  
  
Arthur didn't go. If asked he would have claimed that it was because of the proximity to the job and the need to use the time for work but that would have been a lie.  
  
++++  
  
Afterwards, when the extraction is done and dusted, Mal and Cobb gone back to LA, Eames gone who-knows-where, he'd find out of course because it always paid to know where the man was, and Arthur, Arthur was still in Boston, one final thing left to do.  
  
This wasn't some Hollywood feel-good pap, it wasn't out of a sense of grief that he came, or of unfinished business, things left unsaid or even filial duty or any of those trite placations that despite everything their parent's had put them through the tie of blood wins out.  
  
He had been telling the truth when he'd told his father that there was nothing he could do to make it right and no matter his causes or reasons, he could never feel anything for his father but hatred and contempt.  
  
No, he came because he needed to see the proof with his own eyes, the evidence that it was finally over, that chapter of his life firmly closed. He did bring flowers though, because next to his father lay his mother, and she deserved better.  
  
Eames was waiting for him when he left the cemetery. Somehow he wasn't surprised, the forger had the infuriating habit of poking his nose where it didn't belong. Arthur was glad he hadn't actually approached him at the graveside.  
  
“What are you doing here?” He demanded, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Eames shrugged, a nonchalant gesture and a disinterested look, as if there was no real meaning to his presence, “Was in the neighbourhood, thought you may want a bit of company.” The nonchalance was an obvious pretence but one Arthur is grateful of nonetheless, he didn't think he could stand any platitudes or sympathies usually offered to grieving family members.  
  
Arthur's instinctive reaction to refuse the unvoiced offer died in this throat and instead, he nodded briefly, “I know a good bar near here, although the décor is garishly painful to the eyes. You'll fit right in.”  
  
“Arthur, a bar? I didn't know you had it in you.” Eames' affected a shocked tone, a gently mocking expression on his face.  
  
Arthur gave him a dry smile, the banter a familiar touchstone, “We're not working. Despite your continued impressions to the contrary, I do know how to relax.”  
  
The bar was still as he remembered, the wallpaper as painfully bright, and the beer as good, local micro-brewery produce, still surprisingly in business despite all attempts to the contrary. Eames displayed an unhealthy delight in discovering they even imported Real Ale, because apparently such a thing deserved capitals even in speech, from a variety of breweries of his home country. They carried ridiculous names such as Centurion's Ghost, Hobgoblin or Black Sheep, a fact that Arthur was quick to point out to him and the next hour or so was taking up comparing the relative merits of British compared to American beers, before finally agreeing that the Belgian Trappist brews were probably superior to both.  
  
“Any plans for the holidays?” Arthur asked a one point in the evening. Looking back he couldn't quite pin-point how the conversation had gotten there, but the question was asked and he couldn't take it back no matter how much he would like to do so when he observed the brief flash of melancholy over the forger's face before it was replaced by the usual smirk.  
  
“Following the tradition of all my countrymen with enough money to do and finding somewhere warm and sunny to while away the days. Or maybe skiing, never could quite get the hang of it though.” Arthur didn't believe that for a minute, the man could be infuriatingly competent at a surprising number of things, even, no, _especially_ those things he insisted he wasn't any good at.  
  
“Would LA be warm enough?” He wasn't entirely sure where the offer came from, he'd never been one for Christmas under normal circumstances, only for the past few years Mal had insisted he spend it with her and Cobb. Except they were in France this year, taking advantage of the chance to see her parents before the baby was born and travel became impossible, and this year Arthur had no particular desire to spend the season alone.  
  
He was rewarded when a wide, suggestive smile spread across the forgers face, “Why darling, is that an offer I hear.”  
  
“I have a spare room and if I even see a hint of mistletoe a kiss will be the least of your worries,” Arthur tried to disabuse the man of any ideas beforehand, although he knew it would be hopeless.  
  
Eames' expression was one of complete innocence, “Arthur! As if I would,” and Arthur was beginning to regret making the offer already.


	4. 2008

Arthur: Los Angeles, January, 2008  
  
In the end there was mistletoe. For once this was not, Arthur would grudgingly admit later, actually Eames' fault, although what happened afterwards most certainly was.  
  
Despite Arthur's initial misgivings, and wasn't that ironic given that he'd been the one to proffer the invitation in the first place, Christmas itself passed without either of them resorting to violence or planning effective ways to murder and disposed of the other parties body. And by either of them, if Arthur is honest, he means himself, because Eames would be far more likely to either display his irritation through perpetual annoyance, thus causing the first issue, or more likley to disappear in the middle of the night taking all of Arthur's silver and his original Francis Bacon he'd managed to somehow acquire.  
  
But surprisingly Eames, for the most part, behaved himself, flirtations and teasings aside. He kept his hands to himself, at least after the first time when he'd ended up face first looking at the wall, arm twisted behind his back, and the second time, when Arthur threatened to remove his hand with a kitchen knife. Every evening, he retired with only cursory complaints to the spare room, albeit accompanied by a suggestive grin and inviting smile but it was, unfortunately in Arthur's opinion, made without any serious intention, a routine more than anything and the inevitable rebuff was taken with good humour.  
  
They settle surprisingly quickly into the comfortable routine, taking a quiet satisfaction in each others company. In a way the easy domesticity terrified Arthur, a foreshadowing of what his life could be, be probably never would be, should he choose to explore whatever this _thing_ was with Eames.  
  
During the day, Eames dragged Arthur out into LA, visiting all the tourist hotspots, regaling him with extravagant and often patently false tales about celebrity lifestyles of times past, whilst Arthur carefully corrected the most obviously erroneous details before drawing him into discussions of the technical aspects of early cinema and the similarities between film-making and dream construction.  
  
The evenings, in contrast, were passed in conversation, discussions Arthur would call them, arguments outside observers would no doubt say, over a bottle of wine and a well-cooked dinner. Eames' usually, because as much as Arthur was a decent cook, or at least passable, Eames was a master-chef in comparison. He soon inherited the kitchen duties, fluctuating between traditional British fare, and Arthur had never thought he'd voluntarily eat British cuisine before he'd tasted the Englishman's Steak and Kidney pie, French classics, Indian curries and East Asian stir frys.  
  
For Christmas he'd even insisted on buying a goose, a large fat bird sourced from a small artisanal butcher than Arthur had never even realised existed in the city. He'd ignored Arthur's repeated protests, of course, that it was far too much food for the two of them, and insisted on roasting it with potatoes, cooked in the fat of the goose of course, stuffing, braised cabbage and brussels sprouts, the latter solely because it was, apparently, traditional despite the fact that the Eames professed to hate the taste.  
  
Apparently a lot of things were traditional for Christmas in the Eames household, and the man treated the season with an almost childlike enthusiasm that was thoroughly infectious. So much so that Arthur found himself reluctantly agreeing to the inclusion of a tree in the front room, a real one even, despite the mess the needles would make of the carpet, and, even more reluctantly accepting the garish lights and tinsel that ended up decorating every surface in an almost painful riot of colours.  
  
As was their wont, the tree soon attracted presents, a number of packages strewn haphazardly across the floor, the packages clashing in taste. For Arthur a pair of tastefully decorated packages dropped of by the Cobbs prior to their flight to Paris, and of course a bright pink package from Phillipa, decorated by the three year old herself, albeit with a mother's hand clear in the re-wrapped creases. For Eames, a soft parcels, clothing no doubt, wrapped in a plain metallic paper, that turned up in PO Box Eames had clearly set up for the purpose barely two days prior to the day, marked only with the inscription of _from Em et al_.  
  
Sitting alongside these presents of course were a pair of presents bought during the leading weeks for the two of them to exchange. From Arthur a copy of Don Quixote, in Spanish of course, because Arthur would allow nothing less, and Eames smirked when he saw it, a teasing, “Ah, thank you, my Dulcinea,” on his lip.  
  
Eames, in contrast, bought him the entire James Bond collection on DVD, after Arthur had admitted one day to never having seen any prior to Pierce Brosnan and they spent many of the next evenings making their way through the collection, curled up on the sofa, one at either end, their feet barely touching. Although, even by the end, Arthur still insisted that Pierce Brosnan did make the superior Bond, a position Eames argued against with passion, albeit that Daniel Craig was probably the more attractive.  
  
This was not to say that there hadn't been frustrations during Eames' stay, most prominent of which was the way that somehow, after being in his apartment barely a day, the man had managed to make friends with all the neighbours Arthur had spent years carefully avoiding. Worse, he'd managed to give them all the impression that he was Arthur's boyfriend, at least judging by the knowing smiles and disapproving glares the two of them had been receiving over the past few days.  
  
So, with that in the mind, he really should have expected something like this.  
  
“No, absolutely not.” Arthur insisted for what felt like the fifth time already, an assertion he had little doubt would fall on deaf ears like all the others.  
  
“It's New Years Eve, love, it would be a shame to spend it cooped up in this tiny flat. And Richard and Janine are so looking forward to us attending.” Eames continued on his attempt at persuasion, blithly ignoring Arthur's protests.  
  
He couldn't help but quirk an eyebrow at that, “Richard and Janine is it now?”  
  
“Oh yes, lovely couple are the Grayson, very friendly. Though she seems particularly taken by you, I'm wondering if I need to be jealous.” Eames' tone was flippant, as if he wasn't in the middle of de-constructing Arthur's carefully isolated existence.  
  
“Firstly, you don't have a reason to be jealous, since we're not together,” he ignored Eames quiet, _not through lack of trying_ because he knew full well what the forger was interested in was a one night stand not a relationship, “Secondly, I don't care how friendly they are, I avoid my neighbours for a reason.”  
  
“Is the reason the stick you have stuck up your oh so attractive arse?” The reply was pointed, designed to get a reaction,so Arthur ignored it.  
  
“Or possibly I have no particular desire for random stranger to know anything about my business, given our respective lines of work.”  
  
“Ah, so this about _security_ ” he said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth and Arthur couldn't help but smirk at the oh so typically Eames' reaction.  
  
“Security isn't a dirty word, Eames.” The look on his companion's face clearly indicated that he thought it was, at least in this context, “and I'm still not going.”  
  
So of course the next day he found himself standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide whether the dark blue or the dark red tie went most effectively with this particular shirt.  
  
“You know love, for a party you don't want to go to, you're spending an excessively long time getting dressed”  
  
Arthur glanced back at him, “Some of us actually pay attention to our appearance,” his raised eyebrow designed to convey that clearly that given Eames current attire of a purple shirt, tan trousers and tweed jacket he did not belong within that 'some'.  
  
Finally chosing the blue tie, he executed a quick half Windsor before contemplating briefly the addition of a jacket or not. He finally decided it wasn't worth it, given that the article in question would probably just end up draped over whatever piece of furniture would be standing in as a make-shift coat-rack, getting wrinkled or damaged.  
  
Eames stepped up to him as he turned to leave, blocking his exit. “You're crooked love,” he said in way of explanation, reaching up as he spoke towards his tie in order to correct this.  
  
Arthur froze, there really was no better way of describing it, torn between the desire to step away from the unwanted invasion of personal space and the need to move closer. They stood like that for what felt like forever, the moment drawn out between them, taunt and tense, stretched until breaking point. Eames blinked first, coughing slightly and stepping away, “Yes, well, they're expecting us at eight, so we should probably get going, love, unless you plan on being fashionable late.”  
  
++++  
  
The evening went pretty much as expected, much of it taken up with the constant need to correct people that, “No, they weren't together”, and the considerable effort in deflecting questions about his professional occupation. He lost track of Eames early on in the evening, the ever-sociable Brit flitting between conversations, charming and wooing all of Arthur's neighbours and leaving Arthur feeling awkward and alone.  
  
He ended up spending most of the evening talking to Dr Winstow, the elderly college professor living the next floor down, discussing the merits of British post-war painters compared to their continental counterparts. He also ended up drinking more than he would be normally recommended, more than he would normally allow, because he hated the lack of control that emerged with that level of intoxication.  
  
Arthur blamed the alcohol for what happened next, and really it was a testament to his life that so many things about his relationship, if it can be called that, with Eames could be blamed on alcohol.  
  
He was reunited with the forger when the latter was emerging from the kitchen, just as Arthur himself was heading in to get yet another beer. It was one of those awkward social moments, where each of them moved simultaneously in the same direction to let the other pass. Except, when Arthur did finally move to the side, he realised that Eames had no intention at all of exiting past him.  
  
“You can hardly blame me for this one, love.” Eames was staring at a point just above his head, and following his eyes with a sense of dread, Arthur realised that they were standing underneath what had to be one of the more bedraggled sprigs of mistletoe he'd ever seen.  
  
Despite his best efforts, he could feel a blush start up at the tips of his ears, that familiar burning sensation that he had no doubt would soon cover his face in a distinctive crimson and he wasn't certain if he hated himself more for reacting this way or Eames for causing it. So he did what any sensible man would do and tried to cover it up with a glare, “No, absolutely not, not in public.”  
  
“It's a private party Arthur, hardly public. Anyway, it's New Years Eve, it's allowed.” Eames had one of those gently teasing smiles that always shot a bolt of some undefinable emotion through Arthur, possibly lust, maybe affection, definitely not the other one. It was that, more than anything, which pushed him to lean forward, noting with distinct satisfaction the surprised look on the previously smug forger's face, and placing a chaste kiss on his lips.  
  
Or at least he planned for it to be a chaste kiss. That lasted all of half a second before one of them, or possibly both, deepened it, until all that was left in the world was the sensation of Eames lips and Arthur felt like he was falling, loosing all control. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.  
  
Eventually they pulled apart, some sort of mutual agreement of the need for air. It was awkward and uncomfortable as neither of them could quite look the other in the eye, unwilling to tackle what had just passed between them. Arthur avoided Eames for the rest of the party and each retired to their respective beds at the end of the evening in a heavy, unfortunate silence.  
  
Eames was gone by the time Arthur got up next morning, the only evidence left of his stay the piled up bedding in the spare room. It would have almost admirable how efficiently he had managed to clear the apartment entirely of his presence, if it wasn't for the heavy emptiness signalling that something, someone, was missing from the otherwise immaculate rooms. Arthur wasn't exactly surprised at his absence and he tried to convince himself that the dark heavy feeling in his stomach wasn't disappointment.  
  
++++  
  
Los Angeles, July, 2008  
  
“What are you doing here?” The question, more of a demand even, was ground out between clenched teeth, because there were children present and violence wasn't an option.  
  
The reason for the children, well child, being present was that Arthur was at Cobb's house. It seemed he was spending a lot of time there lately, in between the occasional freelance job because Cobb himself wasn't taking any work that needed a point man and the bills wouldn't pay themselves. The reasons for both these facts were pretty much the same, the presence of the new baby making it almost impossible for either Cobb or Mal to travel, as well as keeping their hands distinctly full.  
  
So whenever Arthur was in town he made a point to visit and help out how he could, hardly a hardship really since it meant he got to indulge himself in god-fatherly duties, a position he still considered himself privileged to hold. This time though, things were different around the house, noticeable even more so in comparison to the joyful, albeit immensely hectic, atmosphere the last time he'd made it over nearly a month previously.  
  
The source of the disquiet wasn't difficult to pin down, Mal flitted around the house almost like a ghost, physically there but in all other ways clearly absent. Even when she wasn't physically present, her effect was felt, the issue like a perpetually elephant in the room of any conversation.  
  
The last thing he wanted, or needed, was Eames intruding on the situation, throwing off his control and worming his way through his defences like a bull in a china shop, and its possible somewhere along the line he'd lost track of that particular metaphor, which just went to show how much he didn't need the forger's presence. And yet here he was, sometimes life really wasn't fair.  
  
“Arthur, what a pleasant surprise,” and Arthur could have sworn that there was a twitch there, his own presence clearly as unexpected as the forger's was to him, “I would have thought it obvious love, being that this is Cobb's house, that I'm here because the man invited me.”  
  
Arthur couldn't keep the disbelief off his face at that, because with everything that was going on, the idea that Cobb would invite Eames of all people over was frankly ludicrous. “And when, exactly, did this mythical invitation happen?”  
  
“Really love, I'm wounded at your lack of trust,” Eames protested with an exaggerated sigh.  
  
“Don't call me that,” Arthur snapped out, anger growing, because how dare the man act like nothing had happened. He thought he saw a hint of regret in the forger's face, gone so quickly he thought he must have imagined it.  
  
Instead, the forger ignored his protest, leaning against the door-frame with an exaggerated sigh. “So, you going to let me in?” And despite the mounting temptation to slam the door in his face, he eventually does so.  
  
Eames blithly continued talking as he entered the house, “This is the infamous Cobb residence then is it? Nice.” He was looking around as he headed into the living room, poking and prodding various decorations and knick-knacks, taking up all the space in that way he did.  
  
Arthur felt a small hand gripping his trouser leg and the slight pressure on his leg indicating that Phillipa had taken refuge from this loud newcomer into her domain behind him. Unbidden, he could feel a wry grin forming across his face. He could thoroughly appreciate the sentiment.  
  
“Who're you?” The small voice pipped up from somewhere behind his leg, stopping Eames in mid-stride.  
  
He spun round, a wide grin on his face, “Ah, this must be the littlest Cobbling I've heard so much about.” He knelt down, to peer at her around Arthur's legs, “James, right?” he said with an exaggerated hopeful expression  
  
Phillipa shook her head, a shy smile on her face even as she grasped Arthur's leg tighter, “Nooo, James is my brother silly, he's still a baby and smells. I'm Phillipa”  
  
“Ah, Phillipa is it? I'm Eames.” He glanced up at Arthur briefly, a mischievous smile on his face, before leaning conspiratorially down towards her say, “You know Phillipa, you need to tell your Uncle Arthur to be more careful, he's always loosing things and they always turn up in the strangest places. In fact, I think I see a coin he dropped earlier right about,” he leaned forward his empty hand glancing over her head and behind her ear before returning with something bright and shiny visible, “here.” Arthur noticed it was a Norwegian Kroner, one of the ones he'd brought back with him from Oslo, no doubt lifted from his pocket when the light-fingered thief had brushed past him.  
  
Phillipa was laughing at the trick, wandering out from behind his legs to admire the coin in the light, and Arthur couldn't help but smile also. Although not, he ensured, when the forger had a chance of seeing. The trouble with Eames, he'd long ago decided, was that he found it immensely difficult to actually stay angry at him, more evidence of the hold the man had somehow managed to gain over him, seemingly without even trying.  
  
++++  
  
Forging was a somewhat unusual manipulation of the dreamscape. Unlike architectural changes, unusual activities, or, Arthur's personal favourite, paradoxical manipulations, forging only changed the forger themselves, not the dream around them. As a rule this meant it drew next to no attention from the projections, hostile or otherwise, allowing the forger to slip through the landscape unnoticed, blending in perfectly.  
  
Except when they were the dreamer, at which point even a vague attempt at changing appearance would result in the projections descending upon the perpetrator like a pack of sharks with a taste for blood. Mal had theorised that it was because of the inextricable link between dreamer and the dream such that the act of the dreamer changing the self would reflect in the fabric of the dream and thus attract the attention of the subject. Arthur wasn't convinced, but it was as good an explanation as any.  
  
So, when it turned out that Cobb had invited Eames, albeit several months ago, with a theorised modification to the PASIV which should allow him to forge unnoticed, even as the dreamer, it was hardly surprising that Eames had eventually taken him up on the offer. Or for that matter that he had insisted on staying to experiment with it on his own, despite the fact that Cobb didn't have the same time to devote to the experiment anymore.  
  
Inevitably then, it was Arthur who got dragged into running the tests, and no, he didn't resent Cobb at all for forcing him to spend that much time alone with the forger, the fact that had developed several unpleasant and painful methods for extracting revenge on the blond extractor was neither here nor there.  
  
Which of course was how he found himself in the middle of what appeared to be a high-class soirée in an impressive facsimile of a large stately home, a large open ballroom, all ornate plasterwork, gilded fittings, like something out of a Jane Austin period drama. The party itself was thoroughly modern however, tables laden with champagne, white-coated waiters circulating with canapees around the milling guests in sharp tuxes and slinky evening dresses and the sounds of a string quartet being amplified discretely around the room by an expensive sound system.  
  
“What is a attractive man like you doing all alone at a shindig like this?” He turned around at the strangely familiar British voice sounded behind him. Arthur turned around with a small feeling of dread, to come face to face with James Bond. Even knowing that this was Eames, had to be Eames, his breath caught in his throat slightly, there was no denying Daniel Craig was an attractive man after all.  
  
He covered it up with a cough and an amused smile, “Shindig? Is that what they're calling them now?”  
  
It didn't work, 'Bond' was sporting a far too smug grin for it to have worked as he replied, “Really love, if I knew turning into James Bond would cause this reaction, I would have tried it sooner.”  
  
Arthur glared at him, a vain hope to shut the man up but still worth a shot. “We're here to work, Eames, as much as I know you're relationship with the concept is fraught at best”  
  
He took the opportunity to glance around the room. They were gaining a number of curious glances from the projections present, but whether that was because of the forgery or because his subconscious shared his taste in men, Arthur couldn't be sure. “The settings appear to be working this time, you're not getting torn apart yet, more's the pity.”  
  
“Ah, but I'm using a forgery that's close to my own sense of self. The real test, love, is when I forge into something completely different. It's a bit like with the physical architecture, the bigger the change from the original, the more attention you draw.” Eames had a small smirk as he was talking, a clear challenge of intellectual one-upmanship and Arthur wasn't going to let him know he'd caught the point man out, even if forgery wasn't exactly his particular area of expertise.  
  
So instead Arthur merely raised an eyebrow at him in a gesture he knew could be interpreted by most as thoroughly condescending, “So, they'll pay more attention when you're not being an egotistical smug bastard then?”  
  
“Not to mention attractive, dashing and deadly ,darling.” He started moving towards one of the hallways as he spoke, and Arthur followed out of a sense of curiosity more than anything.  
  
The next forgery Eames put on was a woman, beautiful of course, because Eames didn't seem to do women any other way, curvy with long dark hair and sultry bedroom eyes. She looked vaguely familiar and Arthur spent several moments idly trying to place her as they toured the gardens outside to see the projection's reactions. More hostile this time, glares and shoves as they walked past, building up to that tipping point after which the attack would come, brutal and deadly, because Arthur's mind was nothing if not protected.  
  
“I'm beginning to feel your subconscious doesn't like me,” Eames pouted as a passing projection shoved past her so hard she almost stumbled into a rose bush.  
  
Arthur calmly steadied her, him, he never was quite certain of the right pronoun when Eames was pretending to be a woman, before replying dryly “You should be flattered, most people would be be in pieces on the floor by now, forgery or not.”  
  
“Maybe I should take advantage of it to try and prise out some of your secrets. The opportunity to learn more about the mysterious Arthur, I don't think I could forgive myself for passing it up.” The grin he, she, gave was mischievous and far from serious.  
  
Arthur choose to respond in a similar vein, “Maybe I should shot you and save you the pain of what my subconscious will do to you if you tried.” He was rewarded with a wounded sigh and a muttered, 'you never let me have any fun' and he couldn't help but smirk slightly in amusement at the pout on his companion's face.  
  
The conversation had lead them back indoors, this time through the servants entrance and the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. Of course this was the point were Eames decided to try out a final forgery, a rather balding, squat, middle-aged man. The reaction of the projections was almost instantaneous and Arthur barely had time to drag the forger out the way before a kitchen knife stuck quivering in the solid oak door behind them.  
  
“Should I be concerned that somehow this skin is further from your self-image than the woman?” Arthur asked him as they ran through the maze of corridors and stairs that made up the servants passages. Eames seemed to know the way instinctively and Arthur wondered briefly if the setting was lifted from a childhood home, but then dismissed the idea. Despite everything, Eames wasn't that stupid.  
  
“There's nothing wrong with being in touch with your feminine side, Arthur. You should try it sometime, it may help loosen up the overly starched shirts that seem to be a permanent fixture of yours,” the forger replied, as he dragged him through a doorway into a large empty room. A study or library of some sort, although it clearly also doubled as a family living space, with a large comfortable sofas stretched across a deep soft rug. It was decorated for Christmas, a large tree in the corner, presents strewn underneath, and tinsle garishly decorating every surface. Maybe Eames was that stupid, because this was clearly a memory of something, the decorations so clearly reminiscent of those which had been festooned across his own apartment all those months ago.  
  
It took Arthur a moment to notice the final piece of Christmas decoration, the green leaves and white berries hanging from the doorway above them. Their placing couldn't have been chance, their arrival here, in this room, at this time, clearly planned and he narrowed his eyes at the forger, ready to demand what, exactly, he thought he was doing.  
  
Eames beat him to it however, “I thought we could try this again without me being an idiot.” He had a strange expression on his face that Arthur wasn't quite sure he could decipher. It seemed tentative and somewhat hopeful and oh so out of place of the usually cocky forger's features. It was also, he was certain, the closest he was going to get to an apology.  
  
Arthur felt frozen for a moment, trying desperately to decipher the conflicting feelings the words engendered. In the distance, he could hear the projections approaching, feet rushing up stairs, the sound solidifying his choices in front of him. So he shot him.  
  
Eames was already sitting up when he awoke, rubbing his wrist where the needle had been. “A simple no would have sufficed.”  
  
He sounded put out, hurt even, although Arthur thought he must have been imagining that last one, and the expression caused a stab of guilt to course through him. It was that, more than anything, which prompted him to say something stupid. And it was stupid because he knew how dangerous this could be, how much control he might be giving away, but said it anyway. “It wasn't a no. Not really. Just a not yet.” he sighed slightly, running his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he'd thought he'd gotten rid of. “Not here.”  
  
Somehow Eames seemed to understand what Arthur was trying to convey, because he nodded with a small, slightly sad smile, “Maybe another time then.”  
  
++++  
  
Newcastle, September, 2008  
  
Arthur regretted the words later, as the traditional British drizzle caused rivulets to run down his face, down his back, soaking him through to the bone and causing a cold to settle deep under his skin until he felt he'd never get warm. His suit was probably ruined, one of his better ones unfortunately, with a five figure price tag. Of course the rain was the least of his problems on that front and he laughed bitterly at the thought, regretting the gesture immediately as the pain shot up his body from his abdomen.  
  
He was dying, that much he was certain of, feeling his blood slowly seeping into his overly expensive shirt, staining it a dark, deep, red. It would be brown by morning once it dried, a horrible rusty colour that would make it look more at home in Eames' wardrobe than his own. Not that he'd be there to notice it of course, the bullet sitting in his gut long having done its job since.  
  
It was his own fault really, he should have checked out the job offer better, done the research, realised that something was so distinctly _wrong_. More than anything, he should have known better than to trust insane Glaswegian extractor's especially one's who see fit to play the Prodigy's Smack My Bitch Up as a cue for the kick, and really there was nothing more disturbing that hearing that particular song being played at reduced speed two layers down in a dream.  
  
Not that he really had to worry about that any more, Zach Kerry now firmly dead, his reward for selling Arthur out. The only thing disappointing the point man about that particularly fact was that he hadn't actually been the one to pull the trigger. Of course, not that he'd been overly concerned with that at the time, he'd been far too busy trying to avoid being shot himself.  
  
He had managed to wing at least two of the men after him however. It wasn't much, but it was enough, enough to give them pause, enough for him to escape, running into the night, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't even realised he'd been shot until he was several streets away, stumbling over obstacles which weren't there, his legs no longer supporting his weight as they should.  
  
So here he was, minutes, hours, days later, he was not longer sure, lying collapsed against the entrance of a rubbish strewn alleyway, the smell of rotting trash and urine almost overpowering even in the pain induced-haze covering him.. And his only regret, as he felt his life slowly ebb away, despite all the things he'd done, the only thing he could bring himself to regret was that he hadn't acted when he'd had the chance, that he'd been too cowardly to grab the man and take what was being offered to him.  
  
“Hey, you. You alright mate?” The voice came as if from miles away, cutting through his reverie. Arthur reached instinctively for his gun that wasn't there, long thrown in the river during his escape, disposed of to avoid being linked to the events of the evening. It was a piece of shit anyway, barely reliable, but in the UK really he went with whatever he could get.  
  
He could feel hands shaking him and he tried to push them away but his arms weren't responding to his instructions any more. Traitors. “Shit, I think he'd bleeding. Hold on mate, we'll get you sorted out. Jamie, don't just stand there like a prat, call an ambulance you idiot.”  
  
“No,” he tried to protest, coughing as he did, “No ambulance.” At least that's what he tried to say, his lips failing in their task as badly as his arms. He could feel consciousness slipping away, the voices growing faint.  
  
“... right mind.... don't worry... doctor see you right....” Snippets of consciousness filtered through even as the blackness closed in and nothingness claimed him.

++++

Milan, September, 2008: Eames  
  
The noise is persistent, a sharp buzzing emerging from somewhere in the vicinity of the bedside table and Eames blindly reached out across the, surprisingly given his reputation, empty hotel bed to locate the source of the noise and probably commit unspeakably violent acts against it until it stopped. Of course these days it wasn't so surprising the bed was empty, despite the excessive amounts of alcohol imbibed this evening and the clearly suggestive, not to mention otherwise highly attractive, invitations received during its course.  
  
Somehow the allure of one-night stands and short, superficial, relationships with some pretty thing with something to offer, be it money, information or simply their bodies, no longer held any real appeal to him. Which isn't to say he didn't indulge on occasion, he was only human after all, but somehow the image of Arthur, prissy, uptight, gorgeous Arthur always turned up in his mind, putting him entirely off his stride and making the whole event all of a sudden far less fun.  
  
He grabbed blindly at the bedside table until he located his mobile phone. “Hello,” he mumbled, or at least something which was meant to resemble that, but probably came out as a series of muffled syllables which when placed together bore absolutely no resemblance to any sort to the English language.  
  
The buzzing, however, continued unabated and Eames looked at the object with a measure of blank confusion until he realised that the sound must have been coming from his other phone, his personal phone, the one which only a handful of people had the number too, all whom had the last name of Eames.  
  
“Fuck, this had better be good,” he grumbled, fishing the other phone out from his bag dumped on the floor by the bedside table. He didn't recognise the number, which probably meant it was his sister, she did have the terribly bad habit of randomly changing her phone number, or maybe it was just _him_ she refused to call more than once from the same phone, which was probably more likely.  
  
“Hello,” he slurred, the word almost intelligible this time as wakefulness gradually crept upon him.  
  
He was fully conscious when he heard other voice on the phone, female, Yorkshire accent, definitely not his sister. “Hello, am I speaking to Mr Eames.”  
  
Eames felt himself tense, as if the phone itself could attack him. The number of people, outside his immediate family, who knew both this phone number and his name should number exactly zero, the fact that this was not the case clearly meant that something was wrong. “Who's asking?” he replied, guardedly, already looking around the room for his clothes in case he had to make a quick escape.  
  
“My name is Dr Riley, I'm calling from Newcastle General Hospital. I was hoping you could help me. Do you know a Thomas Dent? We have been trying to contact his family but yours was the only contact number can find.” The doctor on the other end of the phone sounded both apologetic and awkward, torn between the necessity to get the information and sensitivity to a potential close friend about to receive bad news.  
  
“Thomas Dent? I don...” Eames started an automatic denial, but then stopped. Because the name twigged something in the back of his mind, an important familiarity that he couldn't quite place. And then it hit him, where he'd seen the name before, on a passport lifted from perfectly fitting trousers simply to see the annoyed expression on the uptight point man's face when he laughed at the inevitably bad photo inside. Because passport photos were always bad, even when the document in question was for a forged alias, a clean skin to travel on.  
  
“Fuck,” he sighs as the recognition sets in, _Arthur_ his mind supplies. The only other person to have this number, scribbled one day in haste on a Costa Coffee loyalty card. He'd never used it and Eames was, in fact, surprised he'd kept in this long, folded up no doubt in some corner of his wallet, a vulgar violation of all the point man's carefully enunciated security rules and boundaries.  
  
“Yes, yes I know him, I'm his...” he trailed off again, because how to put it in words the strange dance he and Arthur seemed to engage in. _Colleagues_ definitely didn't cover it, _partner_ was a gross over-statement whichever meaning of the word used , and _boyfriend_ was both overly hopeful at this stage and just made him sound like a teenager. So eventually he settled on _friend_. “What happened?”  
  
“I'm sorry to inform you that Mr Dent was shot three days ago.” The words almost knocked the breath out of him, the implications involved terrifying.  
  
“Is he...?” He trailed off, the words failing him despite all his normal skill at manipulating them to get himself absolutely anything he wanted. Now however they caught in his throat, dying before they were even formed.  
  
“He is alive but in a critical condition,” the words were cautious as much as sympathetic, combining reassurance with caution for how much he is able to say over the phone. “We need to contact his family or his designated next of kin.” _In case we have to turn off the machines keeping him alive_ isn't said but Eames hears as clearly as if they were shouted from the rooftops.  
  
“Fuck,” he says again, because what else can be said, “There isn't any family.” And even if Arthur's father had still been alive, there was no way in hell that Eames would call him, even if he did know the contact details.  
  
He has little doubt Cobb was probably officially down as his next of kin, but a strongly selfish part of him took a level of satisfaction in the fact _he_ was the one who'd been called, not Cobb, and he was reluctant to contact the blond extractor until he knew exactly what the situation actually was.  
  
So instead he just said, “I... I'll be there as soon as I can.”  
  
++++  
  
The hospital smelt like all hospitals did, of antiseptic, sickness and death. Ok, maybe those last two were just in his mind, but it could never be said he didn't have a very good imagination. Currently said imagination was running through all the possible scenarios of what, _exactly_ , had happened to Arthur, what could still happen to him, as he waited for the doctor to give him the news.  
  
Dr Riley turned out to be a handsome dark-skinned woman in her early thirties and under any other circumstances, Eames might have taken a few moments to admire the view and possible try to get to know her better, at least for a few nights. As it was, he barely even noticed it.  
  
“Mr Eames is it? I'm Dr Riley, thank you for coming.” She stretched out her hand, and Eames shook it more out of politeness than anything else.  
  
Eames then proceeded to ignored all the other usual social niceties because really what are you meant to say in these sorts of situations, and jumps straight to the point. Arthur would be proud. “How is he?”  
  
“Please sit down Mr Eames. Before we start I'm afraid I must ask you what your relationship is to Mr Dent. You said you were a friend. Is that a ...close friend?” There was a clear implication in the way she said the word which Eames decided not to correct.  
  
“You could say that.” It wasn't technically a lie, even if Eames did ensure that the inflection in his answer implied something very distinctly more, and if, judging by the look on her face, the doctor decided to interpret that answer in a specific way, well Arthur could hardly blame him for that one.  
  
“I see.” She made a couple of notes then took a deep breath. “I have some good and bad news I'm afraid. Mr Dent received a bullet wound through the abdomen, causing severe tissue damage and piercing his spleen. However the shot appears to been a straight through and through, meaning that...”  
  
“There was an entry and exit wound so you didn't have to go digging around in there for bits of metal.” Eames anticipated what she was going to say.  
  
She looked slightly curious at that, but didn't press, nodding instead and continuing, “Precisely. Mr Dent lost a lot of blood and we had to operate to remove his ruptured spleen. It was touch and go for a while, but he now appears to be in a stable, albeit critical condition. However, I'm afraid he has yet to regain consciousness since he was put under for the operation, which is obviously a clear cause for concern.”  
  
Eames had to bite back a bitter laugh at that, because of course he hadn't, Arthur never was one for making life easy was he. Instead, he ran a hand over his face and uttered a brief curse. He felt like he'd been run over by a freight train, something he had in fact experienced once when extracting from the subconscious of a train enthusiast, the mere hours since answering the phone feeling like years weighing down on his shoulders.  
  
When he'd managed to pull himself back together he noticed the doctor was looking at him with concerned eyes, his feelings clearly showing on his face. That in itself a testament to how thrown he was by this whole thing.  
  
 _This_ he reflected ruefully, was why he tried to avoid getting overly attached to, well, anyone really. It meant that he did stupid things like actually start caring for their well-being, something which served to take his attention away from the far more important task of taking care of his own.  
  
++++  
  
It was a cliché, Eames knows, but Arthur really did look ridiculously young and small in the hospital bed, his features pale and drawn, tense lines of pain visible even in unconsciousness. Although maybe that was just an illusion resulting from the machines and tubing that seemed to cover every inch of his form, keeping his body alive even as he mind remained stubbornly elsewhere.  
  
The doctor had left him by his bedside, and so, not knowing quite what else to do, he sat himself down in one of the visitors chairs, brushing to the side some of the hair which had fallen down unbidden over the younger man's forehead. Seeing him like this, vulnerable, without his usual cool competence or somewhat superior amused smirk felt like a kick in the chest.  
  
Eames would never willingly admit it, but this _thing_ , whatever it was, with Arthur, scared the hell out of him. He'd been almost obsessed with the man pretty much since he met him. At first, this was entierly understandable and physical, combined with the allure of the unobtainable, the forbidden. After all, he'd always had trouble with being told he couldn't have something, it was part of the reason he'd become a thief in the first place. He'd figured the whole thing would probably go away if they'd just fuck, and no, since he still couldn't remember it, that first time didn't count.  
  
That plan was unhelpfully torpedoed of course when they found themselves kissing underneath the mistletoe and Eames felt like he could stay like that for eternity, never, ever, letting the point man go. So, of course, he ran, acting like a coward and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, after all, cowards were more likely to survive. He tried to loose himself in any warm body he could find and finally he was pretty certain that he had managed to get the man out of his mind. Until, of course, he saw him again, looking all bothered and annoyed, with the eldest Cobbling clutching his trouser leg for dear life, and then that idea went out the window too.  
  
Somehow Arthur, the insufferably attractive bastard, had managed to worm his way into Eames affections and refused to budge, for which he was most definitely a bastard. Something that, since he had nothing better to do, proceeded to tell the unconscious man in great, extensive, detail.  
  
There was a small cough behind him, and he looked up to see a middle-aged, distinctly matronly nurse, looking at him with a stern expression on her face, although he could see amusement battling up underneath.  
  
He offered her his patented, sheepish, 'naughty boy' smile, because it was _always_ a good idea to make friends with the nurses, especially the more motherly ones who had the ability to make your stay as comfortable as humanly possible or a living hell depending on how much they liked you. “Sorry about that, it's just... you know.” He gestured at the ICU as if to illustrate the point.  
  
She soften slightly, “I know pet. They say talking to them helps, although I don't think that was quite what they had in mind.” She fussed around Arthur's bed for a moment, straightening pillows and ensuring the IVs were all attached and correct. “Why'd you call him Arthur?” She asked as she checked the row of machines besides his bed, in a tone that implied the question was mostly make conversation than anything else.  
  
Eames was good enough to give no overt indication at having being caught out, as if the question was the most natural in the world. Instead he gave her a slightly confused smile and proceeded to lie through his teeth, because he was good at that sort of thing.  
  
“Hmm? Oh, old nick-name from the army. His last name's Dent, so everyone called him Arthur.” At her slightly blank look, he continued, “You know, from the Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy.” The lie was entirely off the top of his head, but somehow the image of Arthur wandering about, entierly out of his depth, dressed only in battered old dressing gown and complaining about the earth being destroyed to make way for an intergalactic-bypass just had to make him smile.  
  
++++  
  
Arthur stays stubbornly unconscious throughout the day, the hours steadily ticking by, each one making it less and less likely that consciousness will be regained. Eames doesn't spend the hours in the hospital holding Arthur's hand and talking to him, because this wasn't some smarmy made-for-TV drama and Eames wasn't a love-sick girl. Well, at least, he doesn't spend _all_ of them like that. The rest of the time he paces, drinks excessive amounts of hot, strong tea, and spends an inordinate period of time on the phone to the various shady contacts he still had left in the country trying to track down whoever was responsible for putting Arthur here in the first place.  
  
In between, however, he does sit by Arthur's bedside, and yes, he does speak to him. In part in the vain hope that if he baited the man enough, some stubborn, infuriating, control-freak part of him would force him awake _just_ to ensure he had the last word.  
  
It doesn't work, of course, and as the hours stretched on, Eames found himself contemplating the horrifying, impossible possibility that Arthur might never wake up at all.  
  
It was that, more than anything, which drove him from his bedside time and time again, needing to walk, to move, to increase his caffeine intake, anything to escape the possibility that this song-and-dance he and Arthur had been on for the past few years might end before they even made it into the finale.  
  
“Mr Eames?” A clear, authoritative voice rings out behind him, stopping him in his tracks.  
  
He was making his way back to Arthur's room, a cup of tea in one hand, because unlike the horrific instant coffee, the canteen seems to actually know how to brew up proper builder's tea, so strong you could stand a spoon in it, and with plenty of milk and sugar to even out the taste. There's something undeniably British about that fact, and despite everything, Eames finds himself taking considerable comfort in it.  
  
He turned around to face the speaker, biting down on the instinctive reaction to just keep walking, deny the identity entierly. After all it'd be a bit difficult when anyone in this part of the hospital could pretty much identify him on sight.  
  
The speaker is a tall, severe looking woman wearing a suit and rain-coat, she reaches in to her pocket and pulls out a warrant card, “I'm DS Reed. Do you mind if we have a word?”  
  
 _Yes_ he wanted to shout, because nothing good every came from talking to the police, but instead he nodded and gestured for her to follow him into a nearby waiting area. “Of course, anything I can do to help the police,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, which was a hell of lot when called for.  
  
In part he'd been expecting this, after all, Arthur had been shot, the victim of a crime, and even in a city like Newcastle, shootings weren't anywhere near common enough for this to be anything other than a pretty big deal. Of course, since Arthur was still currently unconscious and Eames had implied considerably more than a passing relationship with the man, he was the one receiving the third degree. He made a mental note to thank Arthur for this later when, not if, _when_ the man finally woke up.  
  
The questions were also routine and entirely predictable, requiring very little thought for Eames to spin a web of fiction which showed exactly the same relationship with the truth as a dream-scape did with reality. 'No, he couldn't think of anyone who'd want to hurt Thomas', 'Yes, he was here in Newcastle on business', 'What business? IT consultant'. The answers just tripped off the tongue, giving the impression of a sincere desire to cooperate with any and all enquiries, anything to find the men, and it was usually men who did this sort of thing wasn't it, who did this to darling Thomas.  
  
At first, the detective sergeant didn't look entirely convinced, although Eames had a feeling that the pinched look of suspicion was a constant presence on her face. Hazard of the job he supposed. Eventually however, it started to crack under his carefully applied charm and by the end she actually seemed to be smiling, suspicions allayed. She warned him of course, not to leave the city, to ensure he was contactable, usual routine.  
  
“Where else would I go,” he responded with a self-depreciating smile, even as he was making convoluted plans on exactly how he could get both of them out the country as quickly and quietly as possible should the need arise.  
  
She gave him a sympathetic smile in return, “Well from the looks of you, a hotel could be a good idea.”  
  
She was right, he reflected, after she had left, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. He was pale and drawn, reminiscent of the fact that he'd been away for near to 24 hours already and during that time the only real sustenance he'd had was the constant supply of tea. No wonder the matronly ICU nurse, Nurse McKritchner apparently, had been looking at him as if she was debating throwing him out the ICU.  
  
She did, in fact, do just that less than an hour later, along with the address of the nearest hotel, and an insistence that he not come back until it was at least light again because “It's bad enough dealing with one patient, I don't need you keeling over on me too”.  
  
The hotel in question was, predictably a cheap, tacky chain-branded TravelLodge, but Eames had stayed in worse places and at least it was clean. Frankly, in his current state of exhaustion he could have probably been lying on a bed of nails and still fallen comfortably asleep.  
  
++++  
  
Arthur was awake when he made it back to the hospital the next morning, and wasn't it just typical of the man that he would choose the middle of the night to awaken instead of waiting a few more hours so the Eames could have been there for the grand event.  
  
As it was, he found the happy news out when he was cornered by Nurse McKitchner before he made it into the ICU and pointed, firmly, towards the more general ward where Arthur had been moved to now he was awake and able to function without half a dozen machines to keep him alive.  
  
He leaned casually against the doorway to to the point man's room, once he'd managed to find it of course, taking a few moments to drink in the sight of the man in the bed, dozing a light, natural sleep. The instant didn't last long, some sort of secret 'point man' sense clearly alerting Arthur to his presence, his eyes snapping open and his body tensing almost imperceptibly. Eames couldn't help but smirk at the typically Arthur reaction and drawled out, “Ah, sleeping beauty has finally decided to awaken then.”  
  
Arthur clearly relaxed slightly when he realised who it was, instead pulling himself up in the bed, wincing as he did so and raising an eyebrow at Eames as he did so. “If you're meant to be Prince Charming, I'm not overly impressed,” came the dry response, the voice cracking slightly with disuse but his amusement clearly present.  
  
“I'll have you know my charms are many and varied, but clearly your tastes are lacking the sophistication to appreciate them.” Eames grabbed a seat next to his bed, leaning back in a manner designed to look haphazardly but perfectly calculated to give him the best possible view, a particular technique he'd developed almost specifically to be able to indulge in Arthur-watching without the man noticing.  
  
Arthur snorted slightly in response to the words, but he nonetheless had a smile on his face, less controlled than usual and judging by the clearly dilated pupils, Eames suspected that this was in part due to whatever wonderful cocktail of drugs they had him on for the pain. The smile turned into frown as Arthur continued “That may be so, but did you have to tell them you were my boyfriend?”  
  
Something clenched inside Eames, preparing for rejection, but he kept his voice calm as he said, “Didn't say a word, they entierly drew their own conclusions. I can correct them if you'd prefer of course.” A slight look of alarm flashed across Arthur's face at the suggestion, but was soon gone, smothered by that perpetual look of faint annoyance that seemed to always grace Arthur's face whenever Eames was around.  
  
“A bit late now, assuming you want to avoid looking overly suspicious.” His expression softened, a small smile creeping across his lips, “Anyway, I could get used to the idea.”  
  
Arthur looked as surprised to have said the words as Eames was to hear them, no doubt another result of the pain medication lowering his normally tight control, leaving him blushing slightly and looking away uncomfortably. Even so he didn't try to deny them or try to take the words back, and Eames felt a thread of something, possibly hope, build up inside him “Arthur, why do you always say such things when we're in a position which makes it entirely impossible for me to ravish you.”  
  
The words take a few moments to sink in before Arthur turned back to look at him, a contemplative, and even mildly seductive smirk on his face, “Do you often have plans to ravish me then?” The desired effect, however, was interrupted by a yawn which swiftly followed the words, the effort of conversation clearly too much for his still healing body.  
  
“Oh, all the time love.” He leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss on his forehead, “But not when you can't keep your eyes open for more than ten minutes. After all, its hardly any fun if you fall asleep on me half way through.”  
  
“I'll keep...” another yawn, “that in mind.” The words were becoming muddled and indistinct by the end, Arthur slipping off into a shallow, dreamless sleep.  
  
++++  
  
It was several days later that he finally received a bite from the feelers he'd sent out about the situation. Almost a week filled with muted banter, involving conversations, chaste kisses, because he had never been one for molesting the sick, despite what people might thinks, and increasingly desperate attempts to convince Arthur that yes, he really does need to stay in that hospital bed so he can get better. And, of course, giving apparently cooperative but entierly unhelpful answers to the police.  
  
Frankly, Arthur was probably about as bad a patient as Eames had expected, unwilling to admit any sort of personal weakness even after being shot, restless and desperately bored within a day, and entirely, completely, frustrated with the mothering instinct he had somehow managed to elicit from every single nurse on the ward.  
  
The whole thing was in fact highly amusing, and Eames suspect that he would have been more than content to sit back and laugh at the point man's reaction to his involuntary confinement if it wasn't for his the mounting frustration he felt at the restraints the situation placed on his own desires.  
  
Unfortunately, when he did get a call through, on his way to the local supermarket to pick up some of the grapes for Arthur that the point man seemed to have become addicted to during his stay, the information he received wasn't exactly what he'd been looking for or expected. He was still contemplating exactly how to deal with the unexpected turn of events as he walked back into Arthur's room, just as the man in question was resettling himself back into bed after what must have been a visit to the loo and frankly, there is no way that the short walk down the hallway should have left the ordinarily strong point man looking so drained or exhausted.  
  
He resisted the urged to give him a hand, knowing full well it would _not_ be appreciated, and instead he pulled the curtains around the bed and settled back down in the now, overly familiar, chair, contemplating how exactly to share the news without alerting any suspicion from the other residents of the ward. Eventually he ventured, “You ever read Les Misérables?”  
  
Arthur shot him a puzzled look which quite clearly asked what, exactly, he thought he was playing at, but simply answered, “Of course”.  
  
“I always thought the name Inspector Javert was well chosen, it just rolls of the tongue. Wouldn't quite be the same if they ever did a modern version, Agent Javert wouldn't quite have the same ring.” Of course, he suspected that the FBI agent in question probably pronounced his name in some horribly anglicised bastardisation, but from the way Arthur tenses, serious, businesslike, its clear he knows exactly who he's talking about.  
  
Still, Arthur is good, and he doesn't betray anything in his tone, commenting casually instead, “I imagine he'd still be immensely persistent in following his prey, travelling across oceans no doubt at the mere whiff of picking up the trail.”  
  
“Oh, undoubtedly.” Arthur nodded swiftly at the confirmation and started reaching for his clothing, what was left of it. The shirt and jacket were missing entirely, taken for forensics no doubt, the DNA probably what had tripped something, somewhere to catch the attention of the Dream Crime unit in Quantico. The trousers and even the underwear were bloodstained and useless. Eames smirked gently for a moment at the man's put-out look, before placing the small bag he had brought with him on his bed.  
  
The clothes were pretty basic, cheap things picked up from the local supermarket in the place of the grapes he'd gone out to find. Simple trousers, not jeans of course, because he'd noticed how Arthur seemed to detest denim with an ever greater passion than he reserved for his undisguised hatred of paisley, a light white shirt and cheap, fake-leather, jacket. Still, Arthur was nothing if not practical and, after pawing through the bag, simply muttered a quick thank you, before starting to get changed, a grimace of pain every time the movement stretched his still healing stitches.  
  
He kept his voice low as he leaned forward, “I could come with you, you know. You could be Bonnie to my Clyde.” He didn't expect the point man to say yes, but he still felt the need to profer the possibility.  
  
Arthur, predictably, shook his head, replying in the same low voice “Too dangerous, too obvious. I...” he grimaced as he clearly moved in exactly the wrong way, before gritting his teeth and finishing buttoning up his shirt, “I need to head to ground, alone.”  
  
He reached for his wallet which had been placed along with his other personal effects, including, thankfully a small red die, on the nightstand besides his bed. He opened it briefly, removing a small folded piece of card with a barely visible coffee-shop logo on it, before passing it, along with the passport, over to the forger, “You could always head somewhere with him however, I'm sure he'd appreciate a trip after his injuries”  
  
Eames had to smile at that, because Arthur was always good at thinking about the little details, no doubt why despite his growing reputation within the illegal extraction field, he somehow always managed to stay one step ahead, well unless he was being sold out by disreputable extractors that was. “I know just the place love, lovely little holidaying resort. May have to put a bit on the credit card however, you know how expensive these things can be.”  
  
“I'm sure his credit limit can handle it.” Arthur looked at him for a moment, fully dressed, barely suppressed pain clear in the lines of his face, then seemed to come to a decision because he leaned forward a kissed him fiercely and then just like that, he was gone, disappearing quietly out the door, out the hospital and into the cold grey night.  
  
++++  
  
Les Trois Vallées, December, 2008  
  
Christmas was almost upon him, and Eames always tried to celebrate the season in some style, a reminant from his childhood when this was the only time that all the family managed to make it together. Since, however, returning home was at this time still an impossibility, a fact made very clear by the card received from his sister which promised that she'd _make his apologies to mother for missing this year_ , he decided might as well make the most of the season. So he headed to the French Alps, renting out a small villa nestled deep in the side of the Saint-Bon valley and spending his days in an adrenaline fuelled haze throwing himself down increasingly perilous slopes at neck-breaking speeds. All in all, highly enjoyable.  
  
He'd done as Arthur requested, of course, in part because he had no particular desire to see the point man spend a significant portion of his life behind bars, it would, after all, be such a waste, but mostly simply because Arthur had _asked_ , and that fact wasn't necessarily something he wanted to explore too deeply. He'd spent over a month heading from one destination to another, spending the fictitious Thomas Dent's money and leading their possible pursuers on an impressive chase. There was more skill to the idea that would be expected, he had to make sure the trail was clear enough to follow, without being so obvious that they might suspect what he was doing, and of course ensuring that they never ever actually catch up to him.  
  
After a month, he drops off the radar entierly, after using Thomas Dent's credit card to book two tickets to Murmansk, which he hears is just lovely this time of year.  
  
He'd be lying if he said that he didn't try to track the point man down, once he'd finished destroying Mr Dent's credit score and ensured that he'd lost any possible tails of his own. He had tried to find him, thoroughly, But Arthur wasn't the best point man in the business for nothing, and the man appeared to have completely dropped off the map. Even Cobb didn't know where he was, and wasn't that an awkward conversation, especially the part where he had to try and explain why, exactly, Eames had felt fit not to call him whilst Arthur was in the hospital.  
  
So he resigned himself to hitting the slopes on his own, and spending his evenings socialising, in an entierly platonic way of course, with the various random holidaymakers populating the resort. It was, at least, good research for future faces should he need them, and there was something satisfying about flexing his social muscles, so to speak, and seeing how outlandish lies and small cons he could get away with without arousing suspicion.  
  
Inevitably these evenings also involved imbibing considerably high levels of alcohol, and it wasn't uncommon for Eames to stagger back to his villa somewhat worse for the wear. But, not, thankfully, too intoxicated that he didn't notice almost immediately upon entering, one evening, the presence of an additional, uninvited visitor.  
  
The realisation was like a splash of cold water, sobering him up like no other and he immediately went for the knife he kept secreted about his person, a gun being somewhat too vulgar given the otherwise relaxed setting, and carefully, quietly, made his way through into the large living and kitchen area. There was a small amount of light in here, given off by the dying embers of the fire warming the room and once he'd used this to ensure the room was clear, he fished out the gun that he'd left stashed behind the liquor cabinet before making his way cautiously through to the bedroom.  
  
“I've come a long way, I'd appreciate it if you didn't shoot me.” The familiar voice rang out as soon as he crossed the threshold. The sound came from a barely perceptional figure on lying on the bed, the form unmistakeable even in this poor illumination.  
  
Eames immediately flipped on the light, the energy-saving bulbs thankfully ensuring that the effect wasn't too painful on the eyes, and then took a few moments to drink in the sight of the oh so familiar intruder on his bed. He looked good, more than good, he looked amazing, one of his perfectly tailored three-piece suits, the jacket off as usual, casually slung over a chair, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loosened and a tumbler of what Eames suspected was one of his more expensive Islay Whisky in his hand.  
  
Arthur smirked at him, clearly indicating his amusement at the attention, “Didn't your mother ever teach you it's not polite to stare?”  
  
“Of course, love, but I'm sure she'd forgive me for indulging somewhat given the gorgeous view I'm presented with.” He gave Arthur one of his more suggestive looks as he spoke, leaning lazily against the door-frame, gun now loose down by his side, unwilling to be the first to break and close the distance between them. “To what do I owe the great honour of this visit then?”  
  
“Since you spent last year at my place, I thought it only fair that this year you return the favour. Of course, if you'd rather spend it alone, I'm sure I could find somewhere else to stay.” The words were said casually as if Arthur really didn't care either way, but Eames wouldn't be much of a forger if he couldn't hear the underlying tentative question in the statement.  
  
“Well, it would be rude to not reciprocate. But I do have to warn you love, the place does only have one bed.” He took a couple of steps forward as he spoke, ostensibly to place his gun into the top drawer of the dresser but in reality using the movement to bring them just that little bit closer.  
  
He was rewarded with a highly suggestive smirk and Arthur pushed himself up, off the bed, breaking first to properly close the distance, moving forward until they were almost, but not quite, touching. “I'm sure we'll work something out,” he breathed, and he was so close that all Eames had to do was lean forward to close the gap between them.  
  
Even so, they stood there like that for a few moments, the tension building until it was an almost palpable presence in the room, before eventually, finally, it was Eames' turn to break, moving gently forward to capture the point man's still smirking lips into the kiss he'd been dreaming about for what felt like years, but in reality had probably only been a few months.  
  
“God, I've been wanting to do this for the past three months.” For a moment Eames thought he'd spoken out loud, until he realised that the breathless whisper had in fact come from the point man's lips.  
  
He grinned in return, “You and me both, darling, you and me both.”

 


	5. 2009

Les Trois Vallées, January, 2009: Eames  
  
Eames had always known it was going to end, the honeymoon period that all relationships go through, when everything was all shiny and new, sex still this wonderful novelty that resulting in neither party being able to keep their hands off each other. Although Arthur was in fact surprisingly resistant to the latter phenomena, at least in public, behind closed doors was an entirely different matter. So, it wasn't particularly surprising when it all shuddered to a halt when the real world reasserted its ugly head. He'd just never imagined that they would come crashing back down quite so hard.  
  
They'd been out at _Chez Clements_ that evening, a small, traditionally French and somewhat expensive restaurant they'd discovered to their mutual delight residing in the nearest village, off the beaten tourist track. It served good steaks and even better wine and it had soon became a favourite of both of theirs, so much so that Eames even kept his behaviour within respectable levels so that they didn't end up getting kicked out and deprived of the chef's wonderful cuisine.  
  
Of course, this deprivation was likely to result more from the inevitable bloodstains that would happen after Arthur committed bloody acts of murder on him for even considering such a thing where others could see more than any sort of indecent behaviour itself. And, really, that man for all his wonderful charms, could be a horrific prude when it came to public displays of affection, his personal space bubble almost visibly delineating exactly how far anyone, but especially Eames, could come to touching him.  
  
That night however, the point man seemed slightly more relaxed, only gaving him an exasperated glare, when he felt the inevitable need to rub his leg against the point man's perfectly tailored trousers under the table. Eames tried to determine if this was a sign that the his repeated attentions were starting to wear on the wall enough to generate a few cracks or if there was something about special about this particular evening that he'd managed to miss. The evidence, unfortunately appeared to point to the latter. Arthur was considerably more dressed up than he had been over the past few weeks, where the usual shirts and ties had been forgone for more considerably practical thermals and fleeces. He also made the point of ordering one of the more expensive wines on the list, a Cote du Rhone that Eames had made no secret was one of his favourites.  
  
“Special occasion is it?” He ventured, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow which clearly implied that whatever it is, Eames was a clever enough boy to be able to figure it out himself.  
  
Frankly, he didn't have a bloody clue, although he suspected if it was something really important, Arthur would have wasted no time in reminding him, so instead he ventured “If its your birthday, you can hardly blame me for forgetting since you entirely refuse to tell me when it is.”  
  
Arthur smirked, “Our first time. Seemed a fitting occasion.”  
  
“Pretty sure it doesn't count as an anniversary when only one of us remembers.” Because really, that just wasn't _fair_.  
  
“Not my fault you can't hold your alcohol.” And to be honest, the man did have a point, as much as Eames was loathed to admit it.  
  
He made sure not to repeat the mistake however, and he was pretty certain that the rest of the evenings highly athletic not to mention really quite spectacular, if he may say so himself, activities would be indelibly marked out in his mind for years to come, especially given what happened after.  
  
Its not exactly clear what it was the woke him, the gentle ringing of the phone or the inevitable, and clearly instinctive, tensing on Arthur's body where it lay sprawled over him, using the larger man as a pillow and a mattress and everything in between. It took Eames a few moments to place the sound. Arthur's phone, of course, because who else would have left his phone on the standard Nokia ring-tone, rather than the very tasteful _Back in Black_ he had on his own work phone.  
  
Apparently it took Arthur about as long, a true indication of just how effectively they had tired each other out the evening before, because he then snuggled, and wasn't that a word Eames thought he'd never use in relation to the uptight point man, further into his arms, muttering “Well they can fuck right off.”  
  
Eames couldn't agree more, and he dragged the covers up further around them and resolved to return to the deep slumber of the truly knackered and let the answer phone do all the work. Unfortunately, whoever was on the other end wasn't willing to agree to this plan, because not five minutes after the phone had stopped ringing, it started up again.  
  
“Fuck,” Arthur muttered, before carefully extracting himself from Eames' grasp, and really he couldn't help but moan as the loss of warmth registered through his sleep-fogged mind. He cracked an eye open to see Arthur padding through to the living room, phone in hand, a look of sleepy annoyance on his face.  
  
Eames retuned to dozing, the low drone of Arthur's voice constructing a gentle background noise, fully confident in Arthur's return once he had finished scathingly informing whoever it was on the other end to call back once he had figured out time-zones, because really why else would someone be calling at this time of night. Not, of course, that Eames had ever been on the receiving end of that particular lecture, well only a couple of times, and those had been on purpose.  
  
It took him a long moment to realise that despite the fact the sounds in the other room had long since ceased, the bed remained stubbornly Arthur-less.  
  
Slowly making his way out into the living room, he froze when he saw the other man on the sofa, his hair still dishevelled from sleep, barefoot and dressed only in silk pyjama bottoms, evidence of the previous night's activities still apparent on his chest. Under any other circumstances the view would have like something out of a wet dream but the look on the point man's face just caused a cold feeling of dread to settle in his stomach. It was a dead, empty expression, as if his whole life had just been reduced to flames in front of him.  
  
“Arthur, what happened?” He asked softly, as he made his way over to the sofa, uncertain whether whatever comfort he could offer would be accepted or not, uncertain what, exactly, it was he would be comforting him for.  
  
It took several moments for Arthur to respond, so much so that for a moment Eames wondered if the words had even penetrated through the haze of shock, because really that was the only way to describe it. Thousands of possibilities raced through his mind as to what news could have caused this reaction, each worse than the last.  
  
Eventually, in a soft voice, so low that Eames almost had to strain to hear it, “Mal's dead.”  
  
“Fuck,” the curse was torn out of him without even thinking, but it was appropriate, because whatever horror scenarios he'd been imagining, this was far, far worse.  
  
“She... she... fuck,” Arthur ran his hands through his hair in a gesture born of pain and desperation, his voice cracking, “she jumped. On their anniversary, she jumped!”  
  
“Arthur, I...” Eames paused, the right words which usually came so easy to him now deserting him entirely, the traitors, all the platitudes, apologies, condolences he could offer turned to ash on his tongue. Because really, how could he say _anything_ that could capture even a tiny proportion the magnitude of the tragedy that had just befallen the bereaved point man. “... fuck” he finished with, because there really wasn't anything else he could say.  
  
There was only one thing for it. He got up, making his way over to the liquor cabinet, fishing out the full bottle of 90% proof vodka hiding at the back, a souvenir from the last job he'd pulled off in Moscow. Making his way back to the sofa, he noticed that Arthur hadn't moved, was just sitting there, staring blankly at the phone held in his hand.  
  
Gently, ever so gently, because startling Arthur under the best of circumstances was a bad idea, he replaced the phone with a tumbler of vodka. The other man just stared blankly at the glass for a moment, before knocking it back in a single gulp, the alcohol, or possibly the pain of loss, causing tears to run unbidden down his face. He rubbed them away angrily, as if annoyed at himself for showing any sign of weakness, before wordlessly pouring himself another one, desperately grasping at the oblivion offered by excessive, liver destroying levels of alcohol.  
  
Frankly, Eames thought it seemed like a wonderful idea, and so decided that really the best thing he could do, given the circumstances, was keep him company.  
  
++++  
  
The funeral was, as to be expected a sombre affair. They buried her in LA, and the bright sunshine making an incongruent juxtaposition to the mood of the occasion. The ceremony was small, intimate, close friends and family only and in some way Eames feels like he is intruding, uncertain how much right he had to be there, even though Mal was, had been, his friend too. Social awkwardness was a rare feeling for him, but then death was a rare event, well at least deaths that he actually cared about, and funerals even more so. He'd attended a handful since the first, his father's when he was 10, a very few he cared about, most he didn't.  
  
Eames wasn't, however, afraid to cry at funerals, hadn't been since that first one, his father's echoing insistence on a 'stiff upper lip' be damned. He owed Mal that much, to morn the passing of a wonderful, bright, vivacious woman who was taken from the world, far, far too soon.  
  
He was far the only one, Mal's mother was inconsolable, her father cried the almost silent tears that only a parent burying their child could know and Cobb, Cobb sobbed as only a lover who's other half had been ripped from him could, rivers of tears that would never, could never, ever be enough.  
  
Arthur didn't cry.  
  
Arthur barely showed any emotion at all, a cold, blank mask seemed to have settled on his features, rendering them frozen, immovable, as if a heavy steel wall had closed around his heart, blocking out the pain of the world.  
  
“They think Cobb did it.” It was barely a week after the funeral and they were in Arthur's apartment. Eames has little doubt that the point man would rather be staying with Cobb, be somewhere he could make himself useful, and really, that seemed like all Arthur was doing at the moment, sorting things, organising things, like a fucking automaton.  
  
“ _They_ ” He pronounced in response, “are idiots. I've always said the police here couldn't tell their arse from their elbow, this just proves it.” Because really, how could anyone see the broken shell of a man that Cobb had become and believe that he could ever possibly hurt his wife. The extractor seemed to move around like a ghost, going through the motions, as if his heart wasn't so clearly lying broken and bleeding on the street where Mal died. Eames was imminently thankful that he was pretty much certain of his own physical incapability to love anyone that deeply, leave himself that open to hurt. Of course, he mused glancing at the man across the table from him, he was always very good at lying, even to himself.  
  
Arthur shook his head, not so much in disagreement at the forger's estimation of the police's investigative capacity, but more as to indicate that this fact didn't actually have a bearing on this case. “Mal left a letter with their lawyers, claimed she was scared for her life.”  
  
He sounded like he couldn't quite believe it, frankly Eames couldn't either, but then he hadn't seen her in months, not since that fateful visit in early last year. She'd seemed depressed certainly, but the way she'd talked about things not feeling real had seemed more a metaphorical musing on the inevitable ennui that came with the condition than anything else, a reflection of her love of philosophy and poetry rather than a true loss of touch with reality.  
  
“Bloody hell,” he sighed, trying to fill the silence that had crept up between them, “hadn't realised she'd gotten so bad,” he continued, for lack of anything better to say.  
  
“None of us had.” Arthur sounded angry, that tight clipped tone he got when things had gone spectacularly wrong and he believed that, as much as everyone else had fucked up, ultimately it was his fault, because he was the point man and it was his job to _know_.  
  
Eames was moving to comfort him before he even consciously registered what he was doing, stopping only when Arthur moved out of his reach, rejecting the gesture as he had all the others since hearing the news.  
  
“Don't... just don't” The mask had come back down again, the hard shuttered look he'd worn since waking up that morning in the Alps, head cloudy with vodka.  
  
Eames had had enough, “Don't what love? I hate to break it to you, we're not in public now, no one will know that the great Arthur might enjoy being fucked by a guy, if that's what you're worried about.”  
  
That got a reaction, Arthur's head snapping up anger clear in his voice, “Fuck you, Eames. Just because I don't enjoy making a public spectacle of myself doesn't mean I'm ashamed of what I am”  
  
“No, maybe you're just ashamed of me then.” Eames continued to pick, because he needed this fight, _Arthur_ needed this fight, anything to bring him out of the hardened, controlled shell he was almost visibly trying to crawl into. “Or maybe you're ashamed of the fact that you're human and not the perfect little robot you're trying to pretend to be.”  
  
“And what, exactly, is that suppose to mean?” The words were ground out between gritted teeth and for a moment, Eames briefly reconsiders his course of action, before deciding that whatever pain resulted from this, it was worth it. The things he did for lo... lust.  
  
“Look at you.” He gestured at the point man's form as if it illustrated his point, and really with his sleep bruised eyes and far to thin frame, it mostly did. “You don't eat, you barely sleep, you certainly don't fuck, you shy away from any sort of human comfort as if it burns you.”  
  
A bitter laugh interrupts his tirade, “Is that what this is about. You're annoyed because you're not getting any. For fuck's sake, Mal is dead, Eames!” Arthur slammed his hand down on the table to emphasis his point, and Eames couldn't help but wince at the crack that followed, “I've lost the woman who was like a sister to me, and all you can think about is that you're not getting laid.”  
  
“In case it escaped your attention, Mal was my friend too and frankly this couldn't have happened to a more undeserving person.” For once in his life, Eames didn't have to fake the grief in his voice, nor the sincere concern as he tried to comfort the other man. “But she's gone, and you're not, and you know she wouldn't have wanted you to do this to yourself.”  
  
Eames wasn't certain exactly what happened next, except that one moment he was standing opposite Arthur staring at him from across the table that had been oh so carefully manoeuvred between them and the next he was backed up against the wall, a furious point man pinning him there. “Don't talk about her like that. Don't talk about her at all! You don't have the right to talk … about... her”  
  
It was as if a dam had broken, one moment Arthur was all fire and bristle, anger fuelling his every word, the next he was clinging on to the forger as if for dear life, tears flowing freely. Eames barely registered the comforting burble that fell out of his mouth as he held onto the sobbing point man, as all the pent-up grief, and pain, and loss was dragged from him bit by bit, accompanied by repeated assertions that it “Wasn't right, wasn't fair!”  
  
Eames had a startling, unbidden, moment of clarity then. A deep, terrifying knowledge that if ever anything happened to Arthur, if ever, god-forbid, he was to die then Eames would be just as certainly be as broken and shattered as Cobb was now. To say the idea scared him was an understatement, words did not exist to capture his sheer naked terror at that idea.  
  
So he did the only thing he could, he put Arthur carefully to bed, once he'd cried his eyes out, the emotional outpouring of all the hurt he'd been bottling up having left him with nothing less to stave off the exhaustion and sleep-deprivation. Then Eames carefully packed his bags and he ran, because he'd never been ashamed to admit to being a coward, after all, cowards were the ones who stayed alive.  
  
++++  
  
Dubai, February, 2009  
  
It took Arthur almost a month to hunt him down, although Eames suspected that had more to do with the amount of time it took him to work out whether he even wanted to than anything else. The forger was under no illusions that his capabilities at pulling an effective disappearing act were even close to challenging to the point man, and that was if he'd been trying to hide.  
  
He hadn't.  
  
In truth he'd been hoping for this for a while, pretty much since he'd stepped out the door of Arthur's flat, certainly once he'd gotten on the plane at LAX, but stubborness had kept him away, that an a small, healthy, amount of fear at the point man's inevitable ire.  
  
Of course, what he hadn't been hoping for was it to happen after he'd spent most of the evening imbibing considerable amounts of alcohol in the hotel bar, because there really wasn't all that many other places to drink in this country, when he was far too drunk to deal with, well, anything.  
  
He'd finished the job that had brought him to the city in the first place a couple of days ago and was seriously considering moving on to somewhere with significantly less strict rules on things like alcohol, gambling, pre-marital sex and sodomy or as Eames like to think of them, all those little vices which made life worth living.  
  
“Astounding. Even in a virtually dry country you still somehow manage to get completely inebriated.” The voice was dry as the point man slid into the chair opposite him, signalling to the waiter for another round. Despite the clear, dry, amusement in his tone, there was an undercurrent of something, anger no doubt, to the line of his body. Hardly surprising considering.  
  
Eames was nothing if not a master of appearance, so he refused to allow his surprise at the point man's apparition to show on his face. Rather he leaned back, finishing the drink in his hand, and drawled lazily, “What can I say, it's a skill, and one I'm very thankful for on more than one occasion,” as if Arthur's presence was the most natural thing in the world.  
  
“Well I'm impressed.” Arthur's tone that indicated he clearly wasn't and God, he'd missed this. The banter, the sharp exchange of words that at once challenged him and kept him on his feet. It was only the last vestiges of control he was still clinging onto despite his eminently inebriated state that stopped him from informing his companion of this fact and that would never do.  
  
Instead, he merely smirked in that way that was perfectly calculated to cause the maximum level of annoyance. “Condescension Arthur? You wound me.” What wounded him more was the fact that somehow, without him noticing, the conscientious bastard had ordered them both coffee instead of more alcohol.  
  
Something of his feelings must have shown on his face, because Arthur leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee, an insufferably arrogant smirk on his face, “I can assure you, when I'm trying to do that, you'll be more than aware.”  
  
It was all Eames could do to stop himself from jumping on the man there and then. _Fuck, what you do to me Arthur._ Still, since that would be a bad idea on so many levels, he decided that two could play at that game. Offering the man his most _come hither_ look, he responded in kind, “You're deadliness with a weapon always was one of your more attractive features”  
  
Arthur sat up straighter at that, a tightly controlled look on his face that almost anyone else would interpret as anger. “I think you've had enough for tonight.” The words were tight and clipped, but Eames fancied he could see the naked desire in his eyes, “Let me help me back to your room.”  
  
Not one to offer resistance when perfectly dressed, highly attractive point men were clearly five seconds from jumping his bones, Eames merely stood up, throwing the appropriate money on the table, and gesturing towards the exit “Well then, lead on, MacDuff.”  
  
That, inevitably, received a raised eyebrow, “That's not how the quote goes and you know it.” Because Arthur never was one to let a mistake, his mistakes, go by without comment.  
  
Arthur doesn't jump on him as soon as they get in the hotel room, but its a close thing. Instead he lets Eames collapse drunkenly on the bed as he carefully locks the door, checks the room for possible bugs or threats, and _then_ he jumps him.  
  
It was exactly like Eames remembered, forceful, challenging, a battle for dominance that he always thinks he could lose himself in oh so easily, did so in fact. Until the only thing he can think of was the need to touch, to feel.  
  
Suddenly Arthur pulled away, drawing an involuntary groan at the loss of contact. Bastard.  
  
Eames looked up at the point man stradling him, noting an intense look of anger warring with pain as much as desire in his eyes. Damn, he'd hoped to avoid this confrontation or at least get it out the way _before_ the bastard had started doing things to him that made it impossible for him to think straight and feel as if he would scream if they stopped. Which was probably the point, because Arthur was, at times, a complete and utter vindictive fuck.  
  
“If you ever, _ever_ , think of running out on me again, I will hunt you down and castrate you.” The voice was hard with a cold burning anger and Eames had little doubt he meant it.  
  
“Arthur, I...” he wasn't entirely certain how he was going to finish that sentence. As much as he could remember all the reasons why he'd run, why this was a bad idea, none of that seemed to matter anymore, not with Arthur here and whole and doing things to him he didn't think was possible.  
  
Whatever end was was going to appendage onto that sentence, it the end it didn't really matter, because Arthur continued speaking as if Eames hadn't said a word. “If you want to end this, then you tell me to my face asshole. You do _not_ go running out on me in the middle of the fucking night without even leaving a damn note!”  
  
They sat there staring at each other, the silence stretching out for what felt like hours, but couldn't have been more than a few seconds. “I'm sorry,” Eames eventually offered when the silence became stretch too thin because he didn't know what else to say. And he was, he really really was, and apologies, genuine ones, were not something he indulged in regularly, or indeed at all.  
  
Arthur seemed to read some of that in his face, because he nodded once, as if that settled everything, “Good.”  
  
And Eames didn't think in that moment that there was anything more attractive than the look of utter self-confidence on the point man's face as he pinned him to the bed, completely and utterly at his lover's, and that word seemed to fit now, mercy.  
  
Then Arthur went back to doing what he'd been doing before, and Eames really doesn't think of anything much at all.  
  
Hours, days, minutes later, he'd lost track of time somehow, he was dully aware of Arthur moving around the hotel room through his sated daze. Getting up, getting dressed, and really, after what he'd said to him tonight, that bloody well wasn't right. He reached out and tried to grab him, to drag him back down into bed with him either to sleep, or once they'd, he'd, recovered, because he no longer quite had the stamina of a twenty year old, for round two.  
  
“What are you doing love? Come back to bed.” he mumbled, or at least words to that effect, he was willing to admit to not being at him most eloquent at that point in time.  
  
Arthur shook his head, already retrieving his trousers from the floor where they'd been flung in their haste less than an hour earlier, if the blinking digits on the clock by his bed were to be believed, and frankly, Eames wasn't sure if he trusted them.  
  
“The hotel staff were giving us suspicious looks. So I'm going back to my room, to sleep.” Despite his matter of fact, this-was-how-things-were-going-to-be, tone, Eames swore he could hear a distinct undercurrent of regret.  
  
Arthur did, unfortunately, have a point, the looks from the staff when they'd left the bar together had made the hairs on the back of his neck twitch, so instead of protesting too much, Eames propped himself up in bed so he could watch the far too appealing sight of his companion getting dressed. And really it should be criminal that a man could be so arousing when he was putting clothes _on_ as opposed to taking them off. Of course, in this country, it probably was.  
  
“Yes, I imagine it would be somewhat embarrassing after all the multitude of illegal things we've done, to get arrested for something as mundane as sodomy.” Eames ventured as he watched, as much to fill the silence as anything else, eyes tracking every single button as slender fingers deftly did them up.  
  
Arthur snorted, an smile of amused exasperation on his face,“I'm not sure if I should be insulted or not if you consider what we just did mundane.”  
  
“Darling, I don't think anything with you could be considered mundane,” Eames responded languidly, stretching out across the rumpled sheets to make the point. He was rewarded by a slight pause in the process as the other man clearly battled with the idea of throwing caution to the wind and heading back to bed. Unfortunately for Eames, Arthur's better sense won out and the dressing continued, with Arthur doing up his tie, typical, because who put a tie back on after sex? Well, men who were hoping not to get arrested when emerging from their male partner's hotel rooms no doubt.  
  
He took a couple of seconds to complete the half-windsor before replying, “Glad to hear it.”  
  
Eventually, reluctantly, he pressed a kiss to Eames lips, communicating far better than words the regretful goodbye. The forger couldn't help but grab his tie, preventing his escape. “You know we could always use the PASIV,” he suggested, more out of blind hope than any sort of expectation.  
  
He wasn't disappointed as Arthur extracted himself from his grasp with an firm, “Goodnight, Mr Eames,” his control obviously reasserting himself now he had the armour of his clothing back in place.  
  
“You're no fun.” The forger pouted, before continuing more seriously “We really do need go somewhere with a less restrictive legal system.”  
  
Arthur actually gave the thought some consideration, before asking, “Did you have anywhere particular in mind?”  
  
“Not really, but I'm sure we can thinking of somewhere.” Eames was dismissive, the location didn't really matter after all. He continued with a suggestive grin, “not, of course, that I expect we'll get out in it much.”  
  
Despite the fact that his attention was currently everywhere but the point man's face, there was no mistaking the eye-roll, Eames could hear it in his voice. “You're impossible.”  
  
“It's one of my more attractive features.” Eames agreed.  
  
Eventually they went to Naples, because Arthur had always wanted to see the city. They spent a week there, and despite Eames' best efforts, they did actually emerge from their hotel room on occasion, to tour the city. And, of course, the point man remained frustratingly uptight about public displays of affection. Eames never could resist a challenge, so it became somewhat of a game for him to see how far he could push it before he started risking life and limb.  
  
They parted ways after a week, Arthur to Moscow and Cobb, Eames to Rio and a six figure fee that came with being the best forger in the business. It was an unspoken agreement that whatever else _this_ was, their jobs, their lives in truth because dreaming was what they both lived for, took precedence. Even so, Eames couldn't help be feel a twinge of jealousy at exactly how quickly Arthur had jumped when Cobb called, leaving him at the airport with barely a backwards glance.  
  
It took him a week to find the phone number Arthur had stored in his personal mobile and a further two weeks before he can bring himself to call it. After all, it wouldn't do to be seen to be too enthusiastically chasing after the man. Arthur would never let him hear the end of it.

++++

Kuala Lumpur, September, 2009: Arthur  
  
Arthur frowned when he heard his cell start buzzing. Not his operational phone, the anonymous pre-paid cell he'd acquired less than a week ago with its standardized default ringtone, a result of never keeping a phone long enough to bother changing it, irrespective of any accusations a certain someone might proffer. No, this particularly buzzing was emerging from the older, battered and well-worn phone stuffed deep in the recessed of his jacket, his personal phone, with yes, its personalised ringtone. That fact left the options of possible callers down to two, and since one of them was sitting opposite him, quite clearly not on the phone, meant it could only be Eames.  
  
This was not his turn. Their relationship, a word which Arthur only used to described it within his own mind and then only very occasionally, seemed to have developed a number of rules, entirely of its own volition. Chiefmost amongst these, behind the fact that they were never going to discuss exactly what this thing was they were doing, was the fact that they took it in turns to call. It was a simple pattern they'd fallen into without conscious awareness, but one which assuaged their need for constant competition towards dominance. It was Eames who had called last time, or more to the point turned up at Arthur's Paris flat with little to no forewarning, but the point remained, this was not his turn.  
  
Something twisted deep in Arthur's stomach when he considered the possible implications of this change in patterns, hundreds of possibilities running through his mind as to what could have gone wrong, ways in which Eames could have been hurt or worse, which would push him towards calling him like this. It was always a danger in their line of work, especially given that Eames wasn't the most careful when choosing work partners.  
  
Throwing Cobb an apologetic look, he extracted himself from the booth there were sitting in, before heading out of the small restaurant, if the collection of plastic chairs, strip lighting and cheap food could really be called that, to answer the call.  
  
“Took you long enough, darling, I was starting to think that I'd be left serenading your answerphone and that would never do ,” Eames said once he answered the phone. Despite Arthur's misgivings, he didn't _sound_ in trouble, and even given the forger's propensity toward dissimilitude Arthur was generally very good at picking up trouble, it was his job after all.  
  
“I'm working Eames,” he replied by way of explanation, and possibly it was his own annoyance at the level of relief the forger's words caused, or maybe it was anger that Eames had caused the concern in the first place, but the words came out far sharper that he had intended. He felt off-balance, the carefuly controlled pattern of their interactions thrown out of order by the forger's unscheduled communication.  
  
Eames, predictably, ignored both the tone and turmoil he had inadvertently managed to cause, “All work and no play makes Arthur a very dull boy.”  
  
“It also makes Arthur a very rich one.” he snapped back, “now what it is you want?” That their normally painful banter would be tinged with something sharper was, unfortunately, far from unusual these days. Somehow the added dimension to their relationship eliciting an undercurrent to their conversations which inevitably resulted in them either fucking or fighting in equal measure, occasionally both at once.  
  
“Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.” There was something in his voice which Arthur couldn't quite pin down, he rarely could with Eames, nonetheless it caused the anger to bleed out of him. He felt tired, was tired in truth with the gruelling schedule he'd been keeping preparing for their current job and he really didn't want this turning into an argument, not again.  
  
“In my experience you rarely 'just' do anything,” he allowed his voice to soften, genuine warmth creeping through almost involuntarily at the memory of what had happened the last time Eames had claimed to 'just want to talk'.  
  
“As always, my dear, you know me too well.” His voice had regained its gentle teasing, and Arthur could almost the picture the smile that was no doubt lighting up his face, affectionate and mischievous all at once.  
  
Still there were issues to be address in that last sentence, notably “ _My dear_?” Arthur didn't bother to keep the incredulity out of his voice because really the man's pet names were starting to get excessive, “That's a new one for you.”  
  
“Appropriate I feel, or would you prefer my dearest? My flower, my petal, my light,” Eames continued like that for several moments, the endearments becoming more and more ridiculous and Arthur couldn't keep the amusement off his face. He didn't want to think what he looked like to any passers by, grinning down the phone like a loon.  
  
Eventually, he had to put a stop to it before he burst out laughing, and that really would just be too much, “You could try Arthur. It is, after all, my name.”  
  
“Ah but is it?” Eames mused, pondering, “I could quite imagine you being born a Neil, or maybe a Thomas or a Joseph, before that evil government of yours got hold of you and remoulded you into Arthur, point man extrodinaire”  
  
“It is.” The admission slipped out almost unbidden, and Arthur froze as he said it, a rare breech of the walls of privacy he'd built up around his past, his personal information. Eames obviously realised the weight of it too, because there was a slight hitch on the other end of the line, an indrawn breath.  
  
“And thus forever giving me images of you in shining armour at the head of a round table.” The words were clearly an attempt to clear some of the tension, and underlying seriousness despite their playful nature signally that the forger was more than aware of the admission Arthur had let slip.  
  
Still, he'd given him an out, and Arthur wasn't so ungrateful as not to take it. “You can't sit at the head of a round table, that was the whole point.”  
  
“Why must you feel the need to destroy all my illusions, I'm hurt love.” The conversation had regained its playful equilibrium, for which Arthur was thankful  
  
“Not all of them, just the incorrect ones.” He glanced in through the windows of the restaurant back at Cobb who was fidgeting impatiently at the table. “Was there are reason for this phone call or was its sole purpose to distract me so I wouldn't get any work done”  
  
“Heaven forbid I should distract you from the no doubt vitally urgent work, but as it so happens there was a reason for this little tete-a-tete.” Arthur smirked, of course there was, a phone call was never a simple phone call with Eames. “I've managed to acquire a reservation for two at the Fat Duck on Saturday and I find myself entirely bereft of company to take with me.”  
  
“Acquired? How exactly do you just _acquire_ reservations at the week-end to a three Michelin star restaurant on less than a week's notice?” A restaurant Arthur had always wanted to visit but never seemed to be able to find the time, he doubted this was a coincidence.  
  
“That's neither here nor there, the important question is will you come or will I be forced to resort to taking my mother and somehow I doubt she'd quite appreciate the experience in the same way.” There was something in the man's tone, a certain hopefulness, or maybe vulnerability and Arthur had to wonder what, exactly, it was about this particular invitation which was so important. It certainly wasn't Eames' birthday, that was in May, or his own, which was in March and in any case not know to anyone not present at the particular event.  
  
“So if I'm to understand correctly, you want me to fly half way round the world just so you can take me out on a date?” He couldn't quite keep the amused incredulity from his voice, even for Eames this was a lot.  
  
“Well, when you put it like that love. Yes, yes I am .” The reply was so unashamedly Eames that Arthur couldn't help but grin.  
  
But then he glanced at Cobb and considered the job they were meant to be pulling on Sunday, that one that absolutely could not be delayed and sighed. “I'm sorry, I can't. I just... can't.”  
  
Something of the situation must have shown in his voice, because rather than try to push, cajole and persuade him as usual, there was merely a pause on the other end on the line before the other man eventually replied,“I understand darling, looks like Mother it is then.” Arthur couldn't help but wince at the hurt that managed to bleed into the other man's voice despite his clear, and usually flawless, attempts to keep the words light and carefree.  
  
++++  
  
Oslo, October, 2009  
  
It was a month later than Arthur was saying the words to Cobb that he'd been dreading since starting this _thing_ with the British thief almost a year ago, “We need a forger.”  
  
Cobb had nodded, clearly coming to the same conclusion, “We need Eames.” And wasn't that the heart of the problem, because any job difficult enough to require Cobb to bring in a forger was inevitably difficult enough that only the best would do, and that meant Eames.  
  
Not, of course, that Arthur was in principle against the idea of seeing Eames again, even ignoring the fact that they'd been sharing a bed less than a week ago. He was even willing to admit they did make a good team, their skills complementing and playing off each other in a way that could be at once deadly and explosive. However, this would be the first job they pulled together since falling into bed almost a year ago and Arthur wasn't certain he could trust the infuriatingly tactile Brit to maintain the appropriate level of professionalism. Worse, he wasn't entirely certain he trusted himself either.  
  
Still, there was little question this particular job would be considerably easier if they had a forger with them and Arthur considered it a worse aspersion on his professionalism if he were to refuse to work with him solely on the basis that they were lover... sleeping together. He would just have to make it clear that they were, under no circumstances, going to be engaging in any extracuricular activities whilst they were working together and leave it at that.  
  
Therefore, with the appropriate level of resignation, he sighed and said, “He's in New York,” distinctly not adding _where I just left him, after taking him out to a three-star restaurant for missing out on the Fat Duck the night before, muttering about plans to visit the Guggenheim and pretty much every disreputable bar imaginable_.  
  
Answering their summons with a surprising level of promptness, the forger arrived at their workspace late the next day. They were located in an old ironmongers, a large light yellow painted building which had at some point been transformed into a practice space and storage facility for some long-disbanded theatre company before in turn being abandoned to fall into disuse and disrepair, graffiti adorning the once brightly painted exterior. Arthur had mostly chosen it for its still functioning, albeit only just, heating system, mostly secure locks and, above all, central location, none of which could be lightly dismissed.  
  
Eames, predictably, ignored these factors, greeting him with a teasing, “Exploring our theatrical sides are we Arthur?” The forger perched himself on the edge of the point man's desk, using a wooden sword, that he'd managed to pick up somewhere amongst the detritus of random props, to emphasise his point, engaging in a mock _en guarde_ when Arthur eventually looked up.  
  
Arthur suppressed the smile that was threatening to emerge merely at the man's presence, because that would not be a good start to his plan to exert at least some level of professionalism over the proceedings. So instead he glared, a full _I'm currently contemplating all the painful ways that I could kill you with that sword right now._ glare, with added emphasis on the _painful_. “You're sitting on my files.”  
  
“I am, dreadfully sorry.” His tone indicated that he was far from being anything like “I suppose it wouldn't do to mess up your colour-coded filing system or anything.” Despite the teasing words, or possibly because Arthur was moving his hand towards his pen in a particularly pointed way, he hoped off the desk and went to poking his away around the workspace. Arthur allowed himself a small smile at that, before turning back to his notes, hoping to get a bit more work done before Cobb returned and started the inevitable briefing.  
  
“So which of the delightful hotels this city has to offer are you staying in?” Eames ventured eventually, after having spent more than a few moments trying to puzzle out the function of a particularly unusual prop.  
  
“The Grand,” Forestalling any further comments, Arthur added, “I've booked you in to the adjoining room.” Because his professionalism would probably fly out the window if they ended up actually sharing a room. Eames' professionalism, he suspected, was a lost cause, if it hadn't already died a horrible death at some point along the way. Of course the fact that he'd had to change his own room, not to mention offer a not insignificant bribe to the hotel staff to secure said rooms was neither here not there.  
  
“Of course you have.” Eames' voice had that tone of resigned disappointment that Arthur refused to believe wasn't entirely calculated to make him feel guilty, because the forger could be an emotionally manipulative son of a bitch when he wanted to.  
  
“Need I remind you we're here to work, Mr Eames,” he replied and its possible the words were snapped out with considerably more vehemence than originally planned, an almost automatic reaction to the feeling that he was being played, whatever the underlying reason.  
  
“Ah yes, the infamous Arthur work ethic rears its ugly head again, crushing all opposition before it. How could I forget.” The words were biting and sarcastic and perfectly aimed to get a rise from Arthur. It was only Cobbs entrance into the room, a weary, “Nice to see you two are getting on as well as always” on his lips which stopped the sniping from turning into a full-blown argument.  
  
Needless to say, it was not an auspicious start.  
  
++++  
  
The mark in this case was a Cpt (Rtd) Caroline Durston, previously of Her Majesty's armed forces, Int Corps, and since making her living as a mercenary, information broker and occasionally hitman, well woman, who had recently made it know that she had some particularly devastating information about their clients, names not mentioned for confidentialities sake, which she had made clear her intention to sell to the highest bidder. Unsurprisingly said clients were less than impressed and so, with a surprising level of practicality, had hired Cobb to find out precisely what this information contained so that they could take appropriate, and possibly violent, steps to mitigate its exposure.  
  
Of course the issue emerged that although Durston was not, in fact, an extractor she was one of the next best things, a professional information broker who's work brought her into contact with dreamsharing on a regular basis. Frankly, even if she hadn't been trained in subconscious security, and all the evidence pointed to the fact she had, she certainly had more than enough experience and awareness of it to be an issue. She was also, apparently, Eames' ex. Arthur could feel a headache coming on just thinking about it.  
  
He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to relieve some of the tension there. “When you say 'ex', what precisely are we talking about here, one night stand or lost love of your life?” Its possible a slight edge of bitterness might have crept in on that last one and Arthur assured himself that he was not, in the slightest bit, jealous.  
  
“Three months of fantastic sex whilst we were both not entirely willing volunteers to the MoDs dream research program.” There was an edge to the forger's words, which Arthur couldn't quite decipher but did nothing to alleviate the already growing headache. “Of course she turned out to be a complete and utter lunatic, so it wasn't meant to be.”  
  
“Why am I not surprised by this development,” the words were muttered under Arthur's breath and it was just possible he was being somewhat immature about the whole thing, but he liked to think it was justified. Eames clearly didn't disagreed however, his lip curling in that way it did before he starting on the particularly sarcastic commentary which was guaranteed to get perfectly under Arthur's skin.  
  
Thankfully for the chance of them continuing to have any sort of working relationship, let alone any other sort of relationship, Cobb chose that moment to jump in, “What was her level of involvement in the dream research, is she an experienced dreamer?” and Arthur was kicking himself for not picking up on that particular detail, because that was his job. Fuck, Eames had been here less than an hour and he was already sending Arthur's competency sliding down the scale.  
  
The question clearly caught the forger slightly off guard too, because he swallowed whatever retort he was going to say almost visibly, a distinct crack in the usually perfectly calculated façade he presented, however slapdash it might appear to others. “Yes,” he paused and rephrased, “well for a given value of experienced. She never was particularly fond of the whole thing, never understood its appeal. Terribly effective mental security however, really brought out the sadist in her that bit did.”  
  
“Damn,” Cobb seemed to be pondering options, running his hand over his face in frustration. “Any chance we could use your previous relationship in this?”  
  
Arthur wouldn't quite admit how gratified he was when Eames shook his head almost immediately at the suggestion, “Reignite the old flame you mean? Lovely thought but wouldn't work, she's far from the sentimental type I'm afraid.”  
  
++++  
  
In the end it took them less than a week to come up with a plan, and another week to flesh it out to the point that any of them were actually content with its chance of success. As far as Arthur was concerned, that was two weeks too long. The initial concept had come from Eames, pitching the idea to Arthur as they lay entwined on his bed, and it has seemed lately that their ability to communicate with each other outside of arguments seemingly reduced to moments such as these.  
  
“Two levels,” Eames proffered out of the blue, “if we make her think we tried and failed on the second layer, she'll be so busy on the first layer trying to track us down to exact revenge that she won't notice she's still in a dream.” Arthur couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the incongruity of Eames, of all people, starting a conversation about work at this point in time.  
  
Of course this was not helped by the hand currently tracing patterns in the point man's skin in a way that was distinctly not conductive to having a serious conversation. He grabbed the hand in mid-motion, pressing it against his chest, “How will we ensure she knows who to chase? Leaving the timing down to chance that she wakes up just to see us slipping out the door would be messy.” There was a slight hitch in his voice towards the end of the sentence as Eames had given up trying to reclaim his hand and had instead chosen to lean forward to nibble on his ear.  
  
“Ah, that darling, is the simple part. All we need to do is prime her suspicions slightly and she'll know exactly who to blame.” The forger had moved on to nuzzling his neck as he spoke, and it took a few seconds for the implication to process.  
  
Once it did, however, he stiffened, a thousand different protests jumping up in his mind, most of which were, he would admit, entirely unprofessional, and certainly, definitely, not related to jealousy. Finally he settled on “Or make her so suspicious she leaves town before we have a chance to pull the job. Even for you the idea's idiotic.”  
  
Eames stopped what he was doing, rolling off him with a sharpness that could only be down to annoyance, “As always love, your trust in my abilities is gratifying.”  
  
“Maybe I'd have more trust in you abilities if you didn't insist on taking quite so many needless risks.” Maybe it was concern over the danger Eames would be putting himself into, maybe it was jealousy at the thought of him reacquainting himself with an old girlfriend that made him snap the words out. Either way, it was distinctly the wrong thing to say, but then Arthur didn't seem to be able to say anything right any more.  
  
“Ah yes, whereas I imagine you'd rather not take any risks at all.” Eames' smile was sharp and mocking and Arthur had a feeling he wasn't just talking about the job any more.  
  
Fuck, he was too tired to deal with this shit right now. He rolled over in his bed, his back to the forger, muttering, “What I'm risking at the moment is sleep deprivation. Either get back to bed or kindly fuck off.” He wasn't particularly surprised to hear the door adjoining their rooms slam shut a few minutes later. _Fuck_.  
  
++++  
  
Cobb, of course, loved the idea, the traitor.  
  
The first part was easy. An 'accidental' meeting in the street, a mistimed step causing two bodies to collide, the instinctive, mutual apologies, because they were both British after all, even if they were in Norway, turning immediately into recognition of a familiar face.  
  
Arthur had to admire the almost poetic nature of the whole thing, watching as he was over the top of a newspaper through the window of a café, ostensibly there to give back-up in case something went wrong.  
  
Implementing the rest of the plan however, would be something else entirely, especially since it involved co-ordinating two layers to run around an experienced and possibly mentally unstable, if Eames was to be believed, subject. As such, Arthur couldn't entirely resent Cobb for making them run through the levels more times than was strictly necessary, ensuring that every little detail had been sufficiently accounted for.  
  
What he could resent his for was spending most of this time on the second layer, the layer that he and Eames would be running alone since Cobb would be needed to extract the information on the level above whilst Arthur and Eames acted as a distraction, leading her on a merry chase, Eames words exactly, through the streets of Oslo. The implied slight on his competency, as much as exhaustion from a long day, was possibly making him somewhat more snappish than usual.  
  
Which was no doubt why when he commented, “Do you think you could have made the dream somewhat less _fragrant_?” it came out considerably harsher than the light-hearted banter he'd been aiming for. This seemed to be happening a lot recently, and wondered if that said something he wasn't quite prepared to admit about his and Eames' relationship.  
  
Eames gave him a look which was part disbelieving but mostly mocking, before saying slowly, as if speaking to a small child, or possibly an idiot, “Caroline's a native born Londoner. She'd twig something was wrong a mile off if the tube lacked that distinctive urine aroma.” His smile turned fully mocking, an expression that never failed to make Arthur want to commit acts of violence, “Unless of course public transportation is too low-brow for your esteemed tastes? Is that it love, worried that you might catch something from the great unwashed?” And yes, in hindsight, it was more than possible that Eames, who had never hid his disdain for mundane, repetitive tasks, was as frustrated and tense as he was. At the time however, Arthur wasn't exactly in the most charitable mood to consider this.  
  
He forced down the urge to hit the other man, clenching his fists so hard that it left marks because no matter how satisfying the act would be it would no doubt set off the many milling projections, supplied courtesy of Cobb in this case, that were already starting to look at them with a measure of hostility.  
  
Instead, he choose the considerably more mature route of ignoring the man, something he'd also been doing a lot of recently, and heading off down one of the off-white painted tunnels. It became clear after taking a few steps that the forger wasn't actually following him. Stamping down on his annoyance at the man's inability to take a hint, he threw behind him, “Work Eames, maybe you've heard of it.”  
  
Eames reponse was something along the lines of 'stubborn workaholic pricks', which, in the spirit of not forcing Cobb to send them on another run after the projections tore them to shreds, he pretended not to hear.  
  
They continued the walkthrough of the maze in a sullen silence that to Arthur merely seemed to grow heavier and more stretched with each and every step. His anger had long since cooled off, leaving him with the uncomfortable feeling that it was possible, just possible, that he was being unreasonable. Not, of course, that he'd ever admit this to Eames, not unless the man admitted he was overreacting first.  
  
“How much time will we have before she notices its a dream?” Arthur proffered the question as a peace-offering to break the silence, falling back into what was, for them, safe territory of details and plans.  
  
Eames shrugged, but it was a relax gesture, an indication of uncertainty more than anything else, “I only went under with her twice, and that was six years ago. Mostly, I imagine, it will depend on how close you get to her.”  
  
Arthur nodded, it made sense. His role on this level was to follow her after she'd been handed the case containing the alleged information, so as to ramp up her paranoia and draw attention to the information's value. In theory, the closer he got to her, the more threatened she'd feel and the more likely that her subconscious security would kick in. Once she'd dealt with the intrusion, her natural arrogance and self-satisfaction should help break down some of the defences on the layer above, or at least distract them long enough with hunting down the pair of them to allow Cobb to do his job.  
  
“Of course, when her projections do turn, they're going to be downright vicious, a bit like you first thing in the morning love.” The latter was said with a gently teasing smile, oh so different from the viciously mocking smirk that had so often adorned the forger's face this past week. Part of Arthur felt that there was something wrong with quite how relieved he was to see that particular expression again.  
  
He could feel the corners of his mouth twitching in return, “assuming she hasn't increased her mental security.”  
  
“Assuming she hasn't increased her mental security,” Eames agreed. “Don't think its likely, her opinion towards shared dreaming doesn't seem to have changed, and she's arrogant enough not to believe she'd have to bother.”  
  
Finally, Arthur allowed himself a teasing smile of his own, “I take it she does know what you do for a living?” The question was mostly rhetorical, a way of keeping the conversation going.  
  
Eames answered anyway, clearly of similar mind to keep to the familiar light banter, a comfort after the inevitable pattern of sharp words and ever sharper silences of the past coupld of weeks. “Oh most certainly. First thing she asked me in fact, whether I was planning on invading her mind.”  
  
“I'm sure you did absolutely nothing to encourage her suspicions,” he responded drily, receiving an ironic _who me?_ expression in return. After all, the more certain she was about Eames masterminded the invasion, the more focused she'd be on catching him on the next layer up. Thankfully Arthur had planned in detail for what would happen when, _if_ she managed to catch up to the forger, to both of them, before Cobb had managed to get the the information, off her.  
  
“In the interests of ensuring it doesn't come back to bite us in the ass, what exactly is it she disliked about dreaming?” Arthur finally asked after a few more minutes of silence. It had been bothering him pretty much since Eames had made the statement. Arthur had known people to feel slightly uncomfortable with the concept of sharing their subconscious, but very few who seemed to have a specific dislike of the act of lucid dreaming itself.  
  
Eames seemed to grapple with the question for a few moments, trying to figure out how to phrase it. Finally, he offered, “Dreams are all about the subconscious. The emotions, the hidden depths, that complex world built of hopes and fears and all that bollocks.” The words were a statement more than a question, basic dream theory that they all knew by heart, nonetheless, Arthur couldn't help nodding in affirmation, if nothing else an encouragement for the forger to get the point. “Since darling Caroline doesn't actually have any, she doesn't exactly appreciate the experience in quite the same way.” The term _darling_ was in this case said with such vehemence that Arthur couldn't help feel a somewhat smug sense of satisfaction which if questioned about later he'd completely deny as being highly immature and completely irrational.  
  
Judging by the smirk on Eames' face, he noticed it too, the perceptive bastard he was, but he continued regardless, “Oh, she puts on a wonderful act, even though she has even less imagination than you, do but scratch the surface and there's nothing there.”  
  
He had trailed off towards the end, looking over Arthur's shoulder as if noticing something in the crowd. Following his gaze, Arthur felt his feelings of dread solidify as he spotted a familiar set of dark curls attached to an even more familiar figure in a black evening dress. Typical, he should have known things were going too well.  
  
He tensed in anticipation of the inevitable pain that always seemed to accompany her presence, usually directed at him. Arthur occasionally wondered what exactly it said about his and Cobb's friendship that his projection of his wife seemed to take such pleasure in killing him in increasingly unpleasant fashions, but he was never entirely certain how to address the issue with the man he otherwise thought of as a brother.  
  
He supposed it served them right for using Cobb's subconscious as a training ground. Although that was somewhat the point since it would allow the extractor-cum-architect to ensure that Eames was replicating the level's design to his satisfaction, even with the addition of the 'mark''s subconscious.  
  
 _Talking of which_. Arthur glanced over where the blond man was standing across the main ticket area .The almost enthralled look on his face at the appearance of his dead wife made it clear exactly how much help he was going to be.  
  
“Arthur...” There was question hanging in his companion's tone, and he cut the forger off quickly before he could say anything else. This was not something he was particularly willing to discuss now, not the with her projection bearing down on them. Or for that matter, ever.  
  
“I think we're done here,” He said shortly, pulling out his gun as he did so.  
  
Eames looked ready to argue, glancing at Mal, before back to his face and clearly some of what Arthur was thinking must have shown there, because eventually he nodded pulling out his own gun. “Couldn't agree more love. Time to hit the pub I'd say.”  
  
Arthur shot himself rather than dignify that one with a response, although he couldn't quite keep the amused smirk off his face at the typically Eames comment as he did so.  
  
They didn't discuss Mal before the job, although in hindsight it might have been an idea if they had.  
Of course it might have also been an idea if Arthur had discussed with Cobb how his increasingly vicious projection of his dead wife was no longer content to stay within his own subconscious and seemed determined to bleed through into other peoples.  
  
Or with Eames the fact that when he'd said the mark was an 'emotionless bitch', what he really meant was that she was a complete psychopath who would willing turn around and randomly stab a stranger she happened to suspect of following her. The look of surprise on her face when Eames had shot them both awake was pretty indicative of the fact that at that point she still hadn't actually realised she was dreaming.  
  
Most of all, they probably should have discussed the fact that Arthur wasn't some amateur _child_ on his first extraction run and actually knew what the fuck he was doing without Eames turning up to rescue him every five minutes, even if Mal was at that particular point displaying her considerable skill with a carving knife, the patronising asshole that he was. And yes, that rankled a lot, because Arthur was nothing if not proud of his abilities and the idea that he'd need anyone to rescue his like some damsel in distress was frankly downright insulting.  
  
Somehow he managed to keep a lid on his temper as they completed the job, his sense of professionalism, which seemed to have been dying a messy death throughout this job from Eames' mere presence, somehow managing to drag itself off life support long enough for him to carefully pack away the PASIV and vacate the mark's hotel room. Although he made sure he avoided looking at the forger as he did so, ostensibly following procedure as they split up, but mostly so that he didn't end up doing something that he, but more likely Eames, would regret.  
  
It wasn't until they were back at the hotel, the forger having followed him into his room despite all warning signs that this may be a bad idea, that he snapped. Arthur was not the type to get angry often, at least not the hot, full-blown, shouting and throwing things, or often people, around type of angry, he was willing at admit however, that when he did, it was a sight to behold.  
  
Fighting when they were both coming down from a particularly tense and painful job was probably a bad idea. The argument had started mundanely enough, much like many fights before it, with Arthur pointing out that was not a tourist, that he didn't need this over-protective bullshit and that he was more than capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. An accusation to which Eames had responded with something along the lines of the fact that he was a stubborn control-freak who needed to be able to accept that in a relationship one half didn't exactly enjoy seeing the other getting hurt and thus might try to intervene, not that he'd actually expect Arthur to understand this fact since he seemed entirely unable to admit to them actually being in any sort of relationship at all. Or words to that effect.  
  
Pretty soon however, it morphed however into something more, something uglier, fuelled on by adrenaline, unspent aggression and built-up frustration at their mutual inabilities to function as a couple over the past two weeks until both were in each other's faces, shouting, pushing, the words by then having lost all importance or meaning. If asked, he would not be able to pin who it was who threw the first punch, just that by the end of it they were both bruised and bloody, panting through a hurt that had nothing to do with the physical pain their blows had inflicted.  
  
What he could remember, with crystal clarity, however, was how The Argument, its magnitude having earned it the right to capitalisation, ended.  
  
Eames was staring at him from across the room, wiping away at the blood flowing freely from his split lip and giving him a nasty mocking smile, “Well if that's how you feel love, maybe this thing isn't going to work between us”  
  
Arthur took a deep breath, the anger was still thrumming beneath the surface, overriding the feeling of dread and resignation the words brought out in him, leading him to lash out in return,“You're right, it isn't.” Because at that point it really wasn't.  
  
They stood there starting at each other for a few moments, each processing the concept that, whatever it was they had, it was now over. Arthur regretted the words almost as soon as he had spoken them, but he had no conceivable notion of how he might take them back. He searched the other man's face for any indication of hope, a chance to take them back, but he saw only a viciously mocking snarl, missing that this was as much acting as a mask for the forger's underlying hurt, as he own blank mask of indifference was doing for himself.  
  
 _So that's how it's to be_ he thought viciously, grabbing his suitcase from the bed, one of the few bits of furniture in the room seemingly untouched by their activities and left, grinding out a “Goodbye Mr Eames.” as he did so.  
  
He was on the plane with Cobb the next morning the final remnants of the anger having faded away during the night leaving only a deep, unyielding numbness around his heart. He ignored the extractors questioning glance at his bruised and battered appearance and instead resolved to push the forger as far from his mind as possible. With alcoholic help if necessary, and it distinctly was.  
  
He'd always known that getting involved with the man, well with anyone really, but especially Eames, would be a bad idea. That didn't, however, stop the horrible stab of disappointment at being right.

 


	6. 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part refers to spoilers for the Cobol Job prequel comic. If you haven't read that yet, why not? Go get it [here](http://inceptionmovie.warnerbros.com/thecoboljob/). I'm also getting into the movie now, apologies for any liberties taken with the dialogue, any errors are entirely my own fault and my failing memories.

Los Angeles, January 2010: Arthur  
  
It's strange how things became a habit after just a few repetitions. Arthur had never celebrated the holiday season as a child, not really. Even before his mother had died, the Christmas period, or Hanukkah depending on which of his parents you asked, had been mostly punctuated by sullen silences, cold sniping and alcohol fuelled arguments often with Arthur and his brother caught in the crossfire.  
  
Afterwards the holidays didn't bear much thinking about, his father inevitably sinking into a deep drunken depression that led to Arthur fleeing the house in a vain attempt to survive the season with all his bones intact. Even his brother generally chose to spend the holidays with whichever current girlfriend he had on the go, Jason no more immune than Arthur from their father's wrath at that time of year.  
  
So to say he was used to being alone at Christmas would be an understatement. Only he wasn't anymore, because for the past few years he'd spent his holidays surrounded by others. First Mal and Cobb, the Frenchwoman having been positively scandalised upon hearing that his plans for the season involved Chinese take-out and an early night and had insisted he spend it with them. Then these last two years with Eames, engaging in that strange dance they'd had, the one that had come brutally crashing to a halt barely two months ago.  
  
Which had left him this year bereft of plans, or company, for the season a cruel reminder of what he'd had and lost.  
  
Cobb had chosen to hide out in Moscow with clear intentions to celebrate the season at the bottom of a bottle since he couldn't spend it with his family. Arthur had considered staying with him, possibly to stop him doing something stupid but more likely to keep him company in his drunken stupor of grief and loss. But he'd never been good at dealing with emotions, his own or other people's, and he suspected his company would probably only exacerbate the cycle of depression. More, he'd seen the way Cobb's eyes had lit up at his off-hand suggestion of maybe heading back to LA and the children's gifts in the extractors hotel room which he hadn't quite managed to bring himself to ask Arthur to deliver.  
  
So instead of spending the holiday drowning his sorrows, Arthur finds himself travelling to LA on the 25th. Travelling at any point around Christmas was generally torturous, but Christmas day, Arthur soon decided, was especially so. It wasn't that it was particularly crowded, certainly not compared to other points in the season. If anything there was this eerie quiet, fellow passengers in business class consisting almost exclusively of middle-aged family men, trying desperately to get home or younger go-getters to whom the idea of a life outside of work was a foreign country. But worse even that the depressive mood from those around him was the god-awful false cheer the airline staff seemed determined to subject all the passengers too, as if bad Christmas music and the addition of a sprig of tinsel here and there could make up for the fact that they were travelling on the day that most people were spending at home with loved ones.  
  
Despite his exhaustion upon landing he made sure to visit the Cobb house, before even heading home, to ensure the presents, carried without needing to be asked, were delivered promptly on time, because to a four year old the precise day still carried with it all the weight of importance that the sappy Hollywood fare would have people believe.  
  
Phillipa greeted him with a muted exuberance, albeit brightening up when she saw the gifts he was laden with. Pretty soon she was peppering him with questions about where Daddy was, when he was coming home, whilst James looked on in wide-eyed silence, the toys he was unwrapping forgotten in favour of the all important answer's to his sister's barrage of questions. Arthur tried to answer as best he could, wanting to reassure them but unsure how much he could, or should, tell them and unwilling to make promises neither he nor Cobb would be able to keep.  
  
Miles, who had made it back from Paris to spend time with his wife and grand-children, welcomed him as best he could despite the awkwardness of their relative positions, he as Mal's father and Arthur as the best friend of the man accused of killing her. Not that Miles believed that Cobb had actually committed the murder, aware as much as anyone of how bad Mal was by the end, of what PASIV tech could do if you go to far, too deep. From what Arthur had understood of their relationship, the older man had been a mentor to Cobb for longer than he and Mal had been together, and effectively loosing his son-in-law, to the wrong side of the law, to the world of underground dreaming, must have been almost as deep a blow as the loss of his daughter.  
  
His wife, Etienne, was another matter altogether, glaring at him with something akin to disapproval, constantly hovering in the background whenever he was with the children and never leaving him alone for more than a few minutes. At first he'd thought it was because of his association with Cobb and it was clear that she did not share her husband's affection for her son-in-law, blaming him squarely for his daughter's death, whether he'd pushed her or no, and making no secret of the fact. But it soon became clear that was not the case, or at least not entirely the reason.  
  
“Uncle Arthur,” Phillipa questioned one morning when he was visiting, looking up from the floor where she was carefully applying a bright red pen to one of the exotic colouring books he'd brought back for her from Malaysia. “What's a pédé?”  
  
Arthur choked and glanced around quickly to see if Etienne was around to hear her use such language. She wasn't for once, although he could hear her moving around in the kitchen, making tea no doubt, a habit picked up from her English born husband. Searching around desperately for how to deal with the topic, he tried to buy for time, “Where did you hear that word?” He winced at the sharpness in the question, because she didn't deserve that, but the question had caught him completely off-guard.  
  
Phillipa chewed her pen slightly, looking a bit sheepish, “I over-heard Grandma talking to Grandpa in the kitchen. She was saying that she didn't feel comfortable with you visiting because you were a _pédé_ and that people like that shouldn't around 'the children'” She rushed through the words, clearly nervous about telling him this, but also something that worried her and Arthur had to suppress the urge to march into the kitchen and ask Etienne what, _exactly_ , she thought she was saying around the children. “Which is silly, because you're Uncle Arthur!” The last bit was said as if that simple statement explained everything.  
  
He floundered for a moment, finding it somewhat ironic that he could face down armed projections intent on ripping him limb from limb with barely a flicker but asked a slightly uncomfortable question by a four year old and he was lost. There were times when he was forever thankful that he'd never be in danger of having any children of his own, at least not without considerable effort on his part, and this was distinctly one of them.  
  
Finally, because he never believed in lying to children, he replied, “Pédé is a very hateful word for being gay, which is when a man prefers to have a relationship with another man instead of with a woman.” He desperately hoped she wouldn't ask for more details, because he wasn't certain his embarrassment could quite stand it.  
  
Luckily, Phillipa just nodded, “Like Lucy who sits opposite me in class and her two daddies then?” like that explained everything and maybe it did.  
  
“Yes, something like that,” he eventually replied, somewhat bemused, and gratified, by the easy acceptance of the very young. He just strongly hoped that she wouldn't come to inherit her grandmother's bigotry over time, although if she was anything like her mother, he doubted it, Mal being one of the most open-minded and accepting people he'd ever met.  
  
Phillipa seemed to contemplate the information for a few moments, before asking solemnly, “Does this means I will have two Uncles some day?”  
  
“Maybe,” but he couldn't quite bring the smile to his lips at that one.  
  
++++  
  
Despite the fact he'd only been in LA for a few days at most, by the time New Years was nearly upon him, Arthur was distinctly considering leaving again. In part this was to do with the cold stand-off which had developed between himself and Etienne whenever he visited the Cobb's, despite Miles' best efforts to smooth things over, an apologetic “She's a bit old-fashioned about things sometimes, but her heart's in the right place,” indicating that he was more than aware of what the issue was. In part, his new-found itchy feet was also because he'd spent the last few days trying to avoid Mrs Grayson from the floor below and her insistence he attend their annual New Years Eve party again, since he'd clearly 'enjoyed himself immensely two years ago, and wasn't it a shame he hadn't been around last year'. He really would have to 'thank' Eames properly for that one. Painfully. If, of course, he ever saw the forger again which if he had any choice in the matter he most certainly wouldn't.  
  
Mostly however, he was starting to get restless, inactivity never having sat well with him, his holidays often few and far between. He'd already lined up the next job, with a meeting with the client on the 12th, and considerable legwork which could be done before then, not to mention finding a new architect, because there was no way in hell was he allowing Cobb to design the levels again. He was not, despite what _some_ people might say that much of a masochist.  
  
His decision was hastened when he arrived back at his apartment complex on the morning of the 2nd, Grayson New Year's Eve party thankfully avoided by this point, to see a, becoming far too familiar, figure leaning against the door. He considered his options briefly, before choosing to just continue walking up to his appartment. This identity was clean as he could make it and there was no need to raise unnecessary suspicion by suddenly changing walking patterns or acting as if he had something to hide. After all, if the man actually had something on him, he doubted very much he'd just be casually leaning against the door instead of bringing a whole SWAT team with him.  
  
“Inspector Javert,” he greeted the man, smirking as he saw the waiting FBI agent twitch and glare him, an ugly expression on his craggy face.  
  
“Agent Javert,” the man in question snapped, the pronunciation harsher, more anglicised, and with a distinct emphasis on the title.  
  
Arthur shrugged, the smirk still on his face. “My mistake,” he replied casually as he unlocked the door and pushed quickly past Javert into the apartment complex, leaving the man scrambling to catch the door before it slammed in his face.  
  
“How's your god-daughter?” Javert asked once he caught up to his at the lifts, only slightly out of breath.  
  
Arthur didn't twitch at the question, keeping his face impassive as he stabbed at the elevator button in a vain attempt to get it to turn up quicker. It wasn't, after all, overly surprising that the Cobb house might be under surveillance, the authorities no doubt keeping an eye out in case he managed to somehow sneak back into the country and try to contact his children. Which pretty much scuppered Arthur's plans to develop a watertight new identity to get Cobb through customs. Of course, it could have just been a lucky guess, an obvious deduction given how infrequently he made it back to the city and how close away his god-daughter was, but he wasn't willing to take that chance with Cobb's freedom, not until the search had truly died down.  
  
Undeterred, the FBI agent continued, mock sympathy in his tone “Must be so hard on her, mother dead, father a murderer. Fled the country last I heard, clear admission of guilt if you ask me.”  
  
Arthur knew the other man was baiting him, trying to ruffle his feathers. Unfortunately for him, Arthur had had his feather's ruffled by far more talented, not to mention infuriating, annoying and far too attractive for their own good, individuals, well individual, that this was amateur hour in comparison. So instead of the desired reaction he just smirked, condescension clear in his tone as he responded “Isn't a simple domestic murder was a bit beneath you?”  
  
The elevator choose that moment to arrive, the dinging causing pause in the conversation long enough for Arthur to board quickly, not bothering to check if Javert was following. He was of course, pushing the button for Arthur's floor before he got a chance to, _prick_. The FBI agent smirked at his obvious annoyance, answering the question as he did so. “It was, until I found out who was his best man at his wedding.”  
  
“I suppose I should be flattered,” he responded drily. It was almost amusing how obvious, how desperate the man was to catch him out.  
  
Nonetheless, the FBI agent continued his fishing trip, “Of course Cobb's making quite a name for himself in the world of illegal dreamsharing.”  
  
It was a struggle to keep his face impassive at that, the urge to smirk almost overwhelming, because really, did he truly think that he was going to catch him out with that. “Is he? I didn't know.”  
  
“Really, you didn't? That's strange, because Cobb is known to work with a point man called Arthur.” He paused in a way he no doubt meant to be loaded, but failed miserable, “Arthur.”  
  
Arthur shrugged, responding mildly, “It's a common name.” They'd arrived at Arthur apartment, and he decided to take mercy on the clearly out of his league agent by inviting him in for coffee, or tea when he belatedly remembered that Eames had left a box of PG Tips after the last time he'd stayed. An offer he quickly accepted, making small-talk about the weather as Arthur rummaged around the kitchen for mugs and sugar.  
  
Once Javert had a mug of steaming coffee and was leaning against the counter-top, he finally asked. “What is it you claim to do again?”  
  
Another blatant fishing attempt, “I don't claim to do anything. What I _actually_ do is work as a security consultant. I'm pretty certain we went over this the last time you pulled me in for a round of ridiculous questioning.”  
  
It was, unfortunately, beginning to become a regular experience, the 'star' agent of the FBI's new mind-crime division clearly wanting to make his name by nailing one of the most infamous point men in the extraction business. He'd even come close to making something stick a couple of time, so much so that Arthur had taken to making sure he was always several steps ahead, covering his tracks even more carefully than usually, and ensuring that Cobb stayed even more steps ahead, because the extractor had no real clue about doing it himself even at the best of times.  
  
“Strange, was chatting with a few of your neighbours, they said you worked in IT.” Javert sounded satisfied, like he'd finally got something over him.  
  
 _Thank you Eames._ , he thought with a level of exasperation. He didn't however blink at being caught in the lie, pushing ahead with it instead, because sometimes the best bet was just to keep on lying, “Yes, IT Security.” Interjecting into his voice just the right level of scorn to convey that clearly the man was being ever so slow for not keeping up. It was a tone he'd perfected over the years of working with Eames, condescension to counter the forger's cutting mockery.  
  
“Really, because for a simple security consultant, sorry IT security consultant, you certainly have some interesting friends, Dom Cobb, James Eames. Actually those are the only two aren't they?” The jibe was clearly meant to provoke a reaction, and it did, but probably not for the reasons the man was expecting.  
  
“My friends are hardly any of your business,” he snapped hotly, off-balance at the mention of the forger, even as he knew the name must have come from his neighbours, Eames introducing himself far too freely over the time he'd stayed there.  
  
“Oh but I think they are. After all, how did a simple IT guy get to meet such a colourful character as James Eames, who I might point out, has more than a few warrants out for him in various States.” That was hardly surprising, as worrying as the information may be, not of course that he cared, well maybe a little. Not that he'd ever admit it, but despite the fact that Arthur knew full well the forger was more than capable of taking care of himself, he couldn't help but feel a wash of dread seeped through him at the thought of the Brit ending up in jail.  
  
Finally he answered the question. “In a bar,” because it was, ultimately, the truth.  
  
“A bar? Really Mr Delacy you can do better than that.” Now the man had gone past fishing and into provocation, clearly attempting to exploit whatever vulnerability he thought he saw and draw a rise out of him.  
  
 _Please_ , Arthur had kept his cool under considerably stronger provocation than this. Pointedly finishing his own drink and setting it down on the table, he asked “Was there something specific you wanted to ask me about or did you just come round for a chat? Because if it's the latter, I have work to do.” He straightened up in a clear indication that the conversation was now over.  
  
“Just checking up on my favourite Point Man. Thanks for the coffee by the way.” Javert gulped back the final dregs of coffee before setting the mug down on the table, and turning to leave. Just as he got to the door, he turned around as if something had just occurred to him, “Oh one last thing.” Arthur had to suppress a snort of derision at that, because really who did he think he was, _Columbo_? “Don't suppose you've been to Newcastle in the past year or so?”  
  
Another fishing attempt, because Arthur knew there were no records linking him to that particular incident, he'd made sure of it. “New Castle, Pennsylvania?” he asked, picking on of the many places bearing the name out of thin air, and there were quite a few. Hell, he'd have at least half a dozen to choose from in the UK alone.  
  
Javert scowled at not getting the reaction he was hoping for. “Newcastle-upon-Tyne. You know, in merry ol' England.”  
  
Arthur smirked at the man's disappointment, “I try to avoid England if I can help it, can't stand the weather.”  
  
“Figures.” He turned back to leave parting with, “Well goodbye Mr Delacy, I'm sure I'll be in touch.” Offering up a little wave as he left.  
  
 _Well fuck_ thought Arthur when the door had finally closed, _definitely time to leave LA._  
  
He booked his flight for the end of the week, because the next day would raise all kinds of alarm bells, to Paris first, then to Frankfurt, followed by Dubai before finally meeting up with Cobb in Moscow, each leg of the journey under a different, clean passport, through shell company accounts and forged visas, confusing the trail under layers and layers of misdirection and deception.  
  
++++  
  
Cape Town, April, 2010  
  
“So why do you just grab the man and extract the information, eh? You're wasting our valuable time here.” Arthur winced at the volume of the large South African man's question as he leaned over his shoulder, peering at his notes, far too close to his personal space. It was only the knowledge that killing the client, or any of the client's representatives, was not good business practice that stopped him from committing unspeakable acts of violence at that point. As if it wasn't bad enough that they were working for Cobol fucking Engineering, a company which, based on it's reputation, was unlikely to win employer of the year award any time soon, they had insisted on sending along fucking tourists in with them, a bunch of small minded thugs leaning over their shoulders, second-guessing all their work and generally getting in the way.  
  
Worse, their chief thug, Henderson, a middle-aged blond over-weight man with a distinct hair-growth problem, was far to handsy for Arthur's taste and didn't particularly seem to pay all that much attention to the multitude of subtle and not-so-subtle rebuffs of his attentions.  
  
Restraining the overwhelming urged to add homicide to his list of things to do today, he snapped out, “You hired us to do this job, do you wish for us to do it properly or not?” Polite professionalism had definitely gone out the window by now. _Goddamn tourists_. He resisted the urge, however, to move away from the man's far too close presence, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of making him twitch.  
  
“Just protecting our interests mate,” he leaned closer and he said so and the sharp retort died on Arthur's lips as, swear to God, he felt a hand appear on his knee.  
  
Arthur snapped, because there was only ever one man who could get away with that sort of thing and Henderson was distinctly not it. He was moving instantly, grabbing the offending limb and twisting it to almost breaking point and using the pressure to force the man back, up against the wall.  
  
“Arthur!” Cobb's voice was sharp and held a distinct warning, more concerned than rebuking him, and Arthur could see the rest of the Cobol thugs that seemed to constantly hanging around and getting under their feet on this job moving towards him with a distinct sense of purpose, reaching for their guns as they did so. Arthur ignored them, they couldn't shoot him, not without risking hitting their employer too, so they were distinctly beneath his concern at this point. Of course that was assuming they weren't too stupid to actually realise this fact, which was entirely possible based on the scintillating examples of intellect Arthur had seen during the fortnight of making their acquaintance.  
  
Looking back into the primary source of his current headache, he hissed through gritted teeth, “Don't touch me”. He putt just that little more pressure on the hand within his grasp and was gratified to see a distinct wince on his victim's face.  
  
“You can't tell me a pretty boy like you isn't interested in that sort of thing.” Henderson, damn him, was smirking despite the pain, a cruel lecherous expression and Arthur could feel the man's arousal at their closeness. The bastard was getting off on this.  
  
He shoved overweight thug back against the wall in disgust, letting go as he did so. “Not from you,” he ground out before stalking out past him, past the goons with guns, and towards the exit of the abandoned storage facility they were using as a base.  
  
“Give me one good reason why we're doing this job?” He hissed as he passed Cobb, ignoring his concerned look and placating gesture.  
  
Judging his mood, Cobb stepped out the way the question on his lips turning instead into a wry, “I can give you half a million.” And wasn't that the problem. Despite whatever else Cobol might be, they were certainly paying handsomely for this particular job, and Cobb needed every penny of it if he was ever the make it back home.  
  
“What's the matter Arthur, can't stand the attention?” Nash called mockingly from his work desk, before he had the chance to respond to Cobb, and not for the first time Arthur cursed their decision to bring him in as an architect. Unfortunately, he was the only architect available, especially after their previous architect Paul, suddenly remembered he had a another appointment lined up when they'd finished their previous job. Cobb seemed to have that effect on team-mates these days, making it difficult for them to keep any sort of architect for more than a couple of jobs.  
  
Even so, that didn't mean he had to make any effort to disguise how much he despised the one architect they could get, even if they would be screwed without him. “Fuck off Nash,” he responded, too angry right now to come up with anything more inventive or cutting, slamming the door behind him as he stalked out, not bothering to wait for the other man's response.  
  
++++  
  
Tokyo, May, 2010  
  
The extraction goes almost entirely as Arthur could have predicted given the run up, which is to say it was a complete and utter fucking disaster. The tourists were exactly as much use as the faceless extras you get in shitty action film, running around like headless chickens, getting in Arthur's way and not even having the decency to die quietly. _Goddamn tourists_.  
  
It was, in the end however, all for nothing, Mr Kaneda not even having the appropriate information they needed, thanks in no small part to the poor intel given to them by their employers in the first place and Arthur resolutely refuses to take responsibility for not picking that up in his research. Delving deeply into the exact business relationship between Proclos Global's Chief Engineer and the pipeline he had supposedly designed was well beyond the remit of their contract and the time-scale given to them.  
  
Not, of course, that their employers were seeing this in that particular light. No, it appears that Mr Woodruff, their main contact, was of the opinion that since Cobol Engineering had paid for a specific piece of information, the job was not complete until they'd acquired said piece of information, irrespective of the fact that that involved an additional extraction because they'd given them the wrong target to begin with.  
  
At least Cobb had managed to convince them to get rid of the goddamn tourists for the next job, and no, Arthur was not going think of them in any terms that didn't also involve an expletive attached. Of course that didn't change the fact that they were now required to extract information from, based on preliminary research, a trained, experienced, lucid dreamer. _Sophisticated,_ Cobb had said the plan needed to be and there was an understatement. Of course sophisticated didn't need to include this.  
  
“We don't need a forger.” he insisted, the conversation strangely familiar, a memory from a different time, a different place. A lot had happened since Boston, even if it felt like he was often coming round in full circle.  
  
Cobb glared at him, “We don't need a forger or we don't need Eames?” The words were sharp, the argument inevitable given the tensions brewing between them since they started on this job. Cobb's new addition to his otherwise, Arthur would grudgingly admit, sophisticated and well-thought out plan being the breaking point.  
  
“We don't need a forger.” Arthur insisted firmly, and as far as the point man was concerned they really didn't, “We don't have the timescale to bring an additional person up to speed, we especially don't have the required time for a forger to familiarise themselves with the mannerisms of the mistress to the point were the subject is liable to be fooled.” These were all entirely rational arguments and had nothing to do with the fact that the most likely forger would be Eames, Eames who might have half the chance of pulling it off even in the timing available.  
  
Cobb, unfortunately knew this too, “There is no fixed window of opportunity here, the subject takes the bullet train from Tokyo every week-end, we can push this back a week to bring him up to speed. Admit it Arthur, this has everything to do with the fact you don't like working with Eames.”  
  
Still, Arthur was not going to give up without a fight, the stakes this time considerably higher than the previous times they'd had this conversation, “This has nothing to do with that.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Cobb was almost shouting at him now, jabbing his finger at him to make his point, “I wouldn't have thought you to be one to let your personal feelings get in the way of the job.”  
  
 _Hypocritical fucking bastard,_ “I'm not the one with the shade of my dead wife wandering around in my head.”  
  
Cobb looked for a moment like he would hit him, which would be a bad idea because at this point, Arthur would probably hit back and that was a fight there was no way the blond man could win. Retraining himself, he hissed, “That has nothing to do with this.”  
  
“Like hell,” Arthur spat, incensed, “she's turning up even when you're not the dreamer now. How long before she starts putting the whole job in jeopardy. So don't you dare talk to me about letting my personal feelings get in the way.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them, the look of pain and loss on the extractors face almost too much to bear. Dammit, he was no good at dealing with this kind of thing.  
  
Cobb stared at him for several moments, angry and hurt until eventually he spat out, “I've got work to do.”  
  
Arthur didn't know how to even begin broaching the topic of unresolved grief haunting the other man, certainly not when Mal's loss was still so raw in his own mind, so instead he fell back on the tried and tested method of ignoring the problem until it went away.  
  
Thankfully, Cobb didn't raise the issue of bringing in a forger for the Saito job again.  
  
++++  
  
Paris, June, 2010  
  
Maybe if he'd put aside his petty, no not petty, completely mature and well thought out, objections to bringing in a forger on the job then they wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Realistically however if they had pulled off the job they'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, since even if they survived their employers, Saito had shown himself more than ruthless enough to hunt them down in revenge for stealing his secrets.  
  
Instead Cobb had now signed them on to do an impossible task, for a man who no doubt would react to failure in much the same way as Cobol had threatened to do. Fuck, Inception. It simply couldn't be done, it was a myth, a fairytale, the mind simply did not work that way, no matter how _sophisticated_ Cobb's planning.  
  
The sheer enormity of the task was probably why when Cobb announced that he was going to get Eames, Arthur didn't even protest the necessity of getting someone with his skills.  
  
“Eames? He's in Mombassa, that's Cobol's backyard.” He realised as he said it that he was answering Cobb's unspoken question as to the forger's whereabouts. He didn't particularly want to explore the fact that he knew the answer to that question so easily, knowing the whereabouts of other's in their profession was just good business practice, being able to say where they were without even having to think about was something else.  
  
“It's a necessary risk,” Cobb's reply indicated quite clearly he wasn't going to be dissuaded on this point.  
  
Which didn't stop Arthur trying again, “There are other thieves.” As much as he hoped to avoid working with Eames again, because what a fucking disaster that had been last time, even he had to admit that parts of his particularly unique skill-set would be necessary to pull this off.  
  
Cobb was clearly of the same mind, his next words confirming it, “We don't just need a thief, we need a forger.”  
  
Worst thing was he was right. Dammit.  
  
The imminent reunion with the man who had, not so much broken his heart as caused a wall of ice to freeze it to the core, was clearly throwing him off his game. So much so that even their new architect, a young girl called Ariadne, brand new to the world of dreaming, almost as new to the world of architecture and far far too talented at both for her young age, picked it up.  
  
“You don't think its possible do you?” She was staring at him with an intensity he found uncomfortable and something in her eyes he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to explore.  
  
Arthur had always been confident in his sexuality, despite a brief period of denial during his teenage years. Even when in the military, constrained by the Uniform code, he merely suppressed his sexual desires, putting forward an image of stiff, cold, asexuality, rather than try to pretend he was like the rest of the soldiers around him. Not that the asexuality idea worked all the well in the end, hence his current freelance status rather than still being a loyal servant of the US government.  
  
However, he also knew that if he _was_ straight, Ariadne would probably be the type of girl he'd go for. Sweet, caring, immensely intelligent, with a self-confidence to make her own decisions and a forthright willingness to say exactly what was on her mind. As it was, he just took pleasure in her company, her conversation, simple, straightforward interactions with no string attached, at least from his point of view. It was possible that he hadn't entirely considered how his friendly overtures might be interpreted on her side however.  
  
He wasn't certain exactly how to deal with her advances, so, as always, he ignored it and hoped the normally oh so perceptive girl might take a hint from his lack of interest. Instead, he concentrated on the question at hand, considering briefly how to answer it. Eventually he settled for the truth, because lying about these things never helped. “No, no I don't. But Cobb does.”  
  
She processed this for a few moment, before asking, “Where is Cobb anyway?”  
  
That was the second time today he'd heard the question, the first being from Saito, demanding an update on their progress, and so he told her the same thing he'd told the businessman, “Mombassa, acquiring the final member of our team.”  
  
“Eames right? I overheard you guys talking.” She sounded slightly apologetic and partly embarrassed at the admission that after storming out that first time she'd obviously hung around for at least a few minutes to listen to their discussion.  
  
“Yes, Eames.” And something of his feelings about the man must have come through in his response, because after a few moments of silence, Ariadne piped up again with a question.  
  
“You don't like him do you?” The tone was curious more than anything else, clearly trying to find out more about this unknown entity she was going to be asked to work with.  
  
“No I don't. He's obnoxious, loud and unprofessional.” He reeled off the reasons as if reciting from a list, in truth he was, the _Why getting involved with Eames was a bad idea_ list, he had it mentally colour-coded by now and everything.  
  
Of course when Eames actually turned up at the warehouse a week later, he wished he'd written it down, because his traitorous mind was having difficulty remembering a single one. Well, until the forger opened his mouth that is.

++++

Mombassa, June, 2010: Eames  
  
Eames momentarily gave serious consideration to turning Cobb down when he'd arrived on his doorstep, well local casino, which was almost the same thing these days, with a job offer. Or for that matter possibly even turning him in, if nothing else than for that quip about his spelling. Honestly, it had been one time, and its not even as if the immigration officer would have noticed it, his English being what it was, if it wasn't for the snot nosed kid behind him, who was distinctly not staying behind the red line as it was supposed to, pointing out the mistake.  
  
Considered it, but ultimately rejected the idea. He wasn't quite so desperate for cash, yet, as to completely burn his bridges with the best extractor in the business.  
  
He certainly rejected the notion when he heard what Cobb was trying to do. Inception, the holy grail of their profession, the impossible dream, so to speak. It wasn't particularly surprising to hear Cobb say that Arthur thought it was impossible, the man thought like an engineer, or a soldier, firmly rooted in the defined. Personally, Eames always considered the term impossible to be a challenge by people lacking the ability to think effectively outside of the box more than anything else.  
  
“Ah, Arthur,” he drawled, as if the name, the man really meant nothing to him, “still working with that stick in the mud?” The question was more to buy time than anything else and it was a stupid really because of course Cobb was still working with Arthur.  
  
Cobb clearly thought so too because he smiled indulgently at him, clearing believing that the question was just yet another in a long line of snipes and digs in the antagonistic relationship they shared. “Hey, he's good at what he does right?” Cobb really had no clue and clearly Arthur hadn't been of a mind to enlighten him.  
  
“Oh he's the best,” Eames had to agree, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice, despite everything else, because Arthur truly was the best. Eames hadn't found another point man who came even close and still had a couple of the bruises to prove it. So of course Cobb was still working with him, when you found a point man that skilled, _that loyal_ his mind supplied bitterly, you didn't let them go easily. And no, Eames wasn't at all jealous about that. Not at all. Honest.  
  
Wasn't that just the problem though. He'd worked hard these past few months to get the point man out of his mind, spending Christmas with his family for the first time in year, his mother's insistence finally winning out over his sister's concerns, and he had to admit it was possible that she may have been at least partially right when he had a particularly close call whilst passing through Heathrow.  
After that, he'd lost himself in the world's backwaters and tinpot dictatorships, making no real secret of his location but heading to places Arthur wouldn't visit voluntarily, places he was unlikely to visit in the course of his work. Cobb, after all, preferring to stick to high-end corporate espionage than the more dirty, though no less lucrative, jobs found in the less civilised parts of the world.  
  
Yes, he knew full well his tactic of both avoiding the man and hoping he'd come find him was perverse, but damned if he was going to make the first move and apologise. It was, after all, Arthur who'd finally pulled the plug and ended the thing.  
  
However, it appeared that Arthur only believed in tracking him down around half the world when it was Eames stupidity that was causing problems, not his own. So, whilst he was resolutely not waiting for Arthur to admit he was an idiot, shame that Hell was still being resolutely flame-filled at the moment, he took advantage of the loose gambling laws that came with the generally lawless nature of his haunts and engaged in far too many one-night stands, both probably far more than what would be considered healthy by any normal person. It was not at all to assure himself that despite the fact that at just over a year, and yes he was counting from that kiss in the hospital, it had been the longest relationship he'd ever had and that however superb, fabulous, nay, mind-blowing the sex with Arthur had been, that was all it had been.  
  
Well, he always had been a good liar, even, especially to himself.  
  
Eventually thought he did agree to do the job, because frankly how the hell couldn't he? The challenge of the impossible was just far too powerful for him to resist.  
  
Of course, if they were going to do this, they were going to do it properly, and that meant a chemist, a good one, because Eames had suffered far too many bad trips at the hands of far too many bad ones to leave that choice up to anyone else.. Lucky for Cobb that Eames knew just the person.  
  
Yusuf was good at what he did, could make sedatives like no one's business. Could make other things too, and Eames had spent many a happy hour, evening, day even, watching the pink elephants go by thanks to the Indian-born chemist's particular brand of skill. Of course it also helped that he was a mate, and frankly up against Arthur and the no doubt cool indifference, if not downright overt condescension, he would present him with, well, he could do with all the moral support he could get.  
  
++++  
  
Paris, June, 2010  
  
Turning up at the warehouse, after a short information gathering detour via Sydney of course, the first thought to strike Eames was that Arthur looked good, fuck he looked fabulous. He was dressed in perfectly tailored three-piece suit, dark grey on top of a red shirt which did everything to show of his lithe figure. Albeit by the time of his arrival in the middle of the day, the jacket had gravitated to the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up and tie slightly askew in that way which indicated that Arthur had probably been spending most of the day attempting to collate vast amounts of mostly useless data into something resembling intelligence which could actually be used.  
  
The sight was far more appealing than it had any right to be and Eames traitorous body reacted almost instantly to the sight, despite all instructions to the contrary. This wasn't helped by the strange look in Arthur's eyes as he caught the forgers' gaze upon entering, something which, if he didn't know very much better, Eames would almost place as longing.  
  
“Arthur, looking as radiant as ever I see,” he greeting him, smirking as he did so in that way he knew was guaranteed to get under the point man's skin, taking an almost juvenile pleasure at the downright glacial glare he received in return.  
  
Any sort of longing had long disappeared now from Arthur's face, replaced with a familiar look of tight annoyance. “Mr Eames, nice of you to finally make it, only five hours after your plane landed,” his tone which indicating that not only was it anything but, but also that if Eames had managed to get into some sort of horrific accident on the way from the airport and ended up in hospital instead then that would be infinitely preferable to his current presence.  
  
In sum, this was going entirely as well as Eames had envisioned.  
  
“I had to find a hotel, or is that not allowed now?” And yes, maybe consciously baiting the point man wasn't exactly helping, but then no one had ever accused Eames of being mature when it came to his relationships.  
  
The narrowed eyes of Arthur's glare indicated quite clearly that _no, it wasn't allowed_ , but even he couldn't actually bring himself to say that. Instead, he made a small sound of what could have been disgust or maybe even simply dismissal, before pointedly turning back to his work, every economical, precise movement indicating quite clearly exactly how much he was ignoring Eames's presence. Ah, so that was how he was planning on playing this.  
  
It was a tactical error. Eames hated being ignored, had since childhood and the realisation that as the middle child, he would never have the privilege of being either the son and heir, or the spoiled position of being the baby of the family. Although, of course, that might have been because his sister was, well, a girl, and thus subject to less of the demands of manhood that modernity still hadn't managed to beat out of the British aristocracy.  
  
In his pointed ignoring of the forger's presence, Arthur might as well have been waving a red flag in front of a bull, causing Eames to forgo his original plan of careful avoidance and instead push, tease and bait the point man back in a clear attempt to provoke a reaction.  
  
It was a task Eames was particularly skilled at, if he may say so himself.  
  
“Those are my files, Eames.” Arthur was glaribg daggers at him as he leaned over the point man to snag one of them from the middle of the pile, holding his pen in such a way as to indicate that it wasn't just his eyes that could be sharp and pointed.  
  
“What about them, d... Arthur,” Eames almost slipped back into old habits, despite the vow he'd made to himself for the sake of his sanity, the avoid calling Arthur anything besides his name, well with the exception of maybe a few choice expletives when the situation called for it.  
  
Nonetheless, a brief expression of what could be hurt, or maybe loss, crossed the point man's face at the slip, before the same pinched, glare returned, “My files, Eames.” As if that illustrated his point, although with said files now spilled all over the table, any sort of ordering long gone, maybe it did.  
  
Still, Eames knew there was nothing guaranteed to annoy Arthur more than wilful obtuseness. “Really? So they are.” he exclaimed, as if he'd only just noticed the fact. And he grinned as he fancied he could hear the pen crack slightly under the pressure of Arthur's grip, a sure sign of his annoyance.  
  
After a few minutes thought the point man managed to compose himself, the hard glare replaced with a smirk reeking of condescension, an expression as calculated to bait Eames, as much as Eames' own was designed to do to Arthur. “Ah, we're into acting like a child then today. You'll excuse me if I don't indulge, some of us actually have work to do.”  
  
Arrogant, stuck-up, wanker.  
  
In fact, condescension seemed to be Arthur's default reaction now, even, no especially when it came to the job, his view of Eames' professionalism made very clear. Which frankly was downright unfair, because despite outward appearances, Eames did take considerable pride in his work. Of course, on occasion even Arthur had to admit he had a good idea or two.  
  
“So he gives himself the idea?” and Eames couldn't help but feek a stab of satisfaction at the faint, very faint, spark of admiration in Arthur's voice as he mentally worked his way through the plan the forger had just outlined, no doubt stress-testing it in his mind, trying to find any holes, any flaws that may come back and bite them later. Well, it was his job, so Eames couldn't exactly resent that too much.  
  
“Precisely. That's the only way it will stick, he has to see himself generate it.” The idea had in fact come from Arthur originally, Arthur and his ridiculous allegories to large grey mastodons as a way of pointing out how people always know the genus of their ideas.  
  
The moment of professionalism didn't last, however, Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking back in full force, “Well Eames, I'm impressed.” Git.  
  
Eames gave him a mocking smile back, because his pride wouldn't let him scream in frustration, “Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur. Thank you.” The smirk of course, didn't budge, but Eames thought for a moment he might have a imagined a brief flash of hurt during his response.  
  
++++  
  
“So what exactly does a point man do?” The question emerged out of the lips of the new architect that Cobb had managed to pick up somewhere, possibly kindergarten, a sardonic part of his mind supplied, because really, when had 20 started seeming quite so young. And she was young, young and oh-so-painfully new to the world of shared dreaming and illegal extraction, despite whatever natural brilliance she might have with manipulating the dreamscape to her ends.  
  
The question, he'd admit, caught him off guard, and ended up replying with a highly inventive, “What?” Because the answer was so obvious to him after years in the business, a point man was, well, on point. Which, he reflected, probably explained absolutely nothing to anyone not approaching the business from either criminal or military world.  
  
“A Point Man? I mean I get where Architect's come in, we're there to design the dreamscape right? Since you can't build from memories. The Chemist makes the drugs, obviously, the sedatives and such, which keep people under, and the Extractor actually steals the information, sorta like a con artist. I even get the whole forgery thing, now” she looked slightly uncomfortable on that last one, embarrassed. Eames had to smirk at that, his demonstration of his skills having obviously been very convincing. Arthur, on the other hand, had not been amused. “But what exactly does a point man do?”  
  
“Shouldn't you be asking Arthur this?” he asked somewhat surprised she'd come to him at all, especially given how well she and the point man seemed to get on. Not ,of course, that he was jealous, not like that at least. After all if Arthur knew what the hell to do with a vagina in bed, Eames would eat his shirt. But, if he was being honest with himself their easy friendship was somewhat painful to watch, the way that she elicited honest smiles of amusement from the man, instead of the cold glares or arrogant smirks Eames seemed destined to produce.  
  
Ariadne rolled her eyes as his question, “I did. He said, 'whatever Cobb tells him to.' I think I may have caught him at a bad time.”  
  
“Ah, was Arthur having one of his snits then.,” Eames asked knowingly, and in a way it was gratifying to know he wasn't the only one to end up on the receiving end, although he'd heard a rumour about some pretty spectacular blow ups at Cobb too.  
  
That comment got him a wry look, which he took as affirmation. “So?” she demanded impatiently, and Eames had bite down the urge to inform her that _all good things come to those who wait_ because torturing the poor girl any longer would just be cruel.  
  
“Since you asked so nicely. A point man takes point,” he offered, partly to see the look on her face, but mostly to give himself time to pin down exactly what a point man did do.  
  
He laughed as he avoided the kick she tried to give him under the table before continuing, “He, or she there are a couple of superb female points out there, theoretically does intelligence and security for the team. Before the job they do reconnaissance of the job location, collection and compilation of intel on the mark, because what the clients give is rarely enough, and whilst they do security, keeping the projections distracted and away from the extractor.” And a thousand and one other little things that most people, Eames included, never noticed or appreciated until they weren't there. Unfortunately, his experience with points over the last few months had left him with a distinct appreciation of how much exactly a good one did.  
  
“Wow. Seriously?” She seemed slightly stunned at the list, “Wait, what do you mean theoretically?”  
  
“Ah, this is where the unfortunate nature of working in a profession without any sort of regulatory standards comes in,” he responded ironically, although the idea of an Ofdream did make him smile somewhat, “Most points tend to be good at one side of the job and barely decent at the other, I've known teams to hire two of them because of it, one for intel, one for security. Even the best will tend to be brilliant at one and just about competent at the other.”  
  
“And Arthur?” There was distinctly an edge to her curiosity in that question, and Eames could tell she was still wary about the people she was working with, the people she's be letting into her mind. Good, it was a caution that would no doubt serve her well if she decided to stay in the profession.  
  
“Oh, Arthur is in a league of his own,” Eames couldn't have kept the fondness out of his voice if he tried, because despite everything else, Arthur was a bloody good point man, “brilliant at both and dramatically good at ensuring above-world security too. To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure the man's actually human”  
  
“You almost sound like you admire him.”Ariadne speculated, the annoying perceptive girl she was.  
  
“He's bloody good at his job, I'll give him that. Of course don't tell him I told you that, he's insufferably superior as it is, he ego really doesn't need another boost.” Which wasn't precisely true, since the man was really his own worst critic and, at times, cripplingly insecure about his inability to reach perfection in absolutely everything he did. It was a trait that he'd found both endearing and downright frustrating whilst they were together.  
  
“What is it between you two? I mean were you always like this?” It was, he suspected, something she'd been wanting to ask him for a while.  
  
Nonetheless, the question caught him off-guard because he found himself replying, almost bitterly, “Oh no, once we were... friends” he finished somewhat flatly, because despite his not inconsiderable vocabulary and skill at twisting the English language, a more appropriate word completely escaped him.  
  
“So what happened?”  
  
“I realised that at some point in his life the stick up his arse had somehow made it into his brain and removed any sort of personality or sense of fun. It was a tragedy really.” He gave Ariadne a look of mock compassion for the loss, causing her to roll her eyes. This time he let her light kick connect, hiding the bitter roll of emotions when he did think about how it had quite so spectacularly fallen apart.  
  
He could see her opening her mouth to ask for more, because in the short time he'd known her, Eames had pegged her down as someone who never did quite understand the idea of boundaries, or tact, or leaving well enough alone. He jumped up before she could do so, reaching meaningfully for his lighter, “now, if you'll excuse me from this lovely little round of 20-questions, I could do with a smoke.”  
  
Eames headed up to the small roof balcony that lay nestled between the vents and skylights of the warehouse. There was, of course, a perfectly good street outside to smoke on, but since Eames wasn't particularly feeling up playing dodge with Parisian drivers with no sense of appropriate speed or road safety. The roof area had, presumably, been installed by some previous owner for this very purpose, a stark, utilitarian area bordered by a harsh, half broken railing, some vague token made towards health and safety. It was also the one place in the warehouse almost guaranteed to offer him the opportunity to destroy his lungs in peace.  
  
Except, because the world clearly hated him, someone had beaten him to it. The sight threw him off balance, and he'd stood frozen for a moment, eyes running over the smooth lines of the point man's body, a spike of lust, and possibly something else he really didn't want to examine too closely, emerging despite himself, because dammit the man did look damned good. After what felt like an age, but really could only have been a few seconds he dragged his eyes off him and turned to move away, deciding that playing with the Parisian traffic was probably the safer bet to sharing the rooftop with Arthur.  
  
“You don't have to go, I won't bite,” Arthur called out before he even got a step. He sounded slightly bitter and oh so tired, even defeated. The tone was so distinctly out of place on the normally so thoroughly composed point man that for a moment Eames thought he must have imagined it. But then he looked closer, noting the slumped shoulders, the tired bowed head and the still lit cigarette between his fingers, the latter possibly the clearest sign of stress of all.  
  
Acting on an impulse he couldn't quite comprehend, he changed direction, heading over to where Arthur was leaning up against the creaking railing, clearly tempting fate. “That's not quite how I remember it,” he teased, because with an opening like that how could he resist. Nonetheless his words lacked the sharp mockery that had punctuated their conversations over the past weeks, earning him a ghost of a smile in return.  
  
Resolving to keep this moment, at least, civil Eames returned the smile and reached for a fag. Wherein he realised that the universe did well and truly hate him today, as his hand came back with nothing more than an empty wrapper, “Fuckity fuck.”  
  
Arthur actually smiled properly this time, a small amused expression twitching at the edge of his lips as he proffered his own pack, “Fuckity fuck?”  
  
Eames grin back on the other hand was wide and not at all bashful, “Well it seemed appropriate.” He lit the cigarette and took a moment to savour the nicotine hit, noticing Arthur doing the same at the corner of his eye.  
  
They stood like that for several minutes, a comfortable silence between them so reminiscent of how they'd been less than a year ago, when each other's presence was something to be glad of rather than a trial to endure. It was, nice, for lack of a better word, and Eames felt a pang of sorrow at the fact they'd lost this so utterly.  
  
Finally, Arthur broke the silence, almost pointedly not looking at him, “I wasn't being condescending earlier. I mean it, it's an impressive plan.”  
  
He'd said it off-hand, casually, as if it didn't mean anything and because Eames was still smarting for the incident, he couldn't help himself from replying, “Really, Arthur, an apology? Are they having snowball fights in hell now?” And yes, he knew he was being immature, really he did.  
  
Still, he regretted it almost immediately as Arthur tensed, his previous relaxed posture long gone. “Fuck you Eames,” he ground out, anger and, yes, ever hurt, clear in his voice as he viciously stabbed down on his now abandoned cigarette end before turning to stomp off the roof.  
  
Eames was feeling like a complete and utter git and suddenly he really didn't want him to leave, didn't want to be the one to throw back the olive branch which had been so tentatively offered towards him “Wait, Arthur.”  
  
The point man turned around at his voice, hovering by the door, eyebrows raised in question, cold indifference still clear on his face and it took Eames a few moments to gather his wits. “I'm... fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” and Eames knew as he said it, he wasn't just apologising for the last few minutes.  
  
Arthur seemed to pick this up too, and he stood indecisively there, half in, half out, a battle playing over his face clear for anyone to read as if it was a book, well anyone who was a brilliant observer of human nature that was. Finally, it seemed he made up his mind, making his way slowly back to where Eames was standing, offering him another smoke as a peace offering, even as he pulled one out for himself. “I thought I was the one who was meant to be bad at apologies,” he eventually said with a gentle smile and Eames let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.  
  
“Well I can't be perfect at everything, can I?” Eames replied with a small smirk, because they never were ones to actually talk about things.  
  
Arthur arched an eyebrow at him, an amusement playing on his lips, and Eames half expected him to come back with a similarly teasing retort. But instead sighed, running his free hand through his hair. “For what it's worth I'm sorry too,” and Eames knew he was definitely not talking about his earlier comments.  
  
++++  
  
Strange the effect of two simple words, well three really, could have. Hearing _I'm sorry_ had somehow taken all the fight out of him, out of both of them, leading to an unspoken cease-fire, a truce really, a laying down of arms in the great war of Arthur and Eames.  
  
Not, of course, that it stopped Arthur picking holes in his plans, because that was, after all his job, to spot the flaws, the ways things could go wrong.  
  
“Might? We're going to need to do a little better than might.” Arthur was dismissive, sceptical, but the protest was professional, not personal, missing the bite it would have had a few days ago.  
  
Which of course didn't stop Eames from twisting round in his chair, a mocking smirk on his lips, “Thank you for your contribution Arthur.” But his words also lacked the heat of days ago, the shared apologies having drained out much of the bitterness from how things ended.  
  
“Forgive me for wanting a little specificity Eames.” Of course, that didn't mean that he couldn't still rile the point man up slightly, at times he really couldn't help himself, the look of annoyance on his face so endearing. The same way he couldn't help himself from mouthing back the word back, just to hear the point man enunciate it back to him, his lips curling delightfully around the syllables, an amused smirk on his face indicating he was more than aware of what Eames was doing.  
  
Nor of course did their cease-fire stop the forger from taking great delight from demonstrating a _kick_ using the point man's chair, because yes, at times he was twelve, and the glare he received in return was more than worth it for the expression on the usually composed point man's face as he lost his balance.  
  
If anything, it was as if they'd gone back to how they were _before_. As if Oslo had never happened, hell, as if Newcastle had never happened and they were still playing that ridiculous dance around each other of flirting and sniping and never quite giving in to the sexual tension that lay between them like a live thing.  
  
Really, he thought petulantly, it wasn't fair that they couldn't have both, that couldn't fuck and keep this easy, comfortable, interaction without annoying things like emotions or misunderstandings getting in the way.  
  
He asked Arthur the question a few days later, earning him an annoyed, “Eames, this is hardly the time.” It was possible, he conceded, that he could have chosen a better moment than when they were busy trying to evade Ariadne's surprisingly vicious projections as they were attempting a final run-through of the first level. And no, this time it definitely wasn't his fault for setting them off, that would have been Yusuf and his inability to resist renovating the road system mid-dream to avoid getting stuck in traffic. The man was a delightful chemist, but it was clear his experience of the more practical elements of shared dreaming were still somewhat beyond him.  
  
The run-through with projections, a dress rehearsal if you will, of the second-level, almost went as badly, albeit for different reasons.  
  
“Hey,” Eames called out as he sauntered up to Arthur catching him in the tastefully designed lobby of the hotel. He was wearing Ariadne's face, partly to see if that would affect how the projections reacted to him, but mostly just to see if he could pull it off.  
  
Arthur glanced at him once, mouth pulled into a frown, “Stop that Eames. It's perverse.”  
  
 _Oh well, there went that idea._ He slipped back into his own skin, leaning casually against the wall, reaching out to push the button for the lift before Arthur had the chance to. “I thought I had that one down pretty well,” he gave the point man a mock pout, “How did you know it was me?”  
  
Rather than smirk as Eames had expected, with a particularly pointed remark as to Arthur's skillfuly superiority, instead a strangely affectionate, even wistful smile ghosted across his face. “I always know when it's you.”  
  
“You say the sweetest things Arthur,” he teased, placing a hand over his heart in an overly dramatic gesture. But deep down he could feel a curl of warmth at the idea, and wondered what it said that ever since that first time Arthur had always been able to pick him out no matter the face he was wearing.  
  
“You're making a scene,” Arthur pointed out drily, and yes, looking around, they were starting to draw the attention of the projections, although that could have been the fault of whatever changes the rest of the team were making.  
  
Acting on impulse, and really, it was just an impulse, not matter how much Arthur might accuse him of otherwise later. “Well, lucky for you I know how to distract them,” he leaned forward as he said it, to capture the point man's lips in a kiss, a gesture originally aimed to be but a brief peck before he beat a hasty retreat, but somehow evolving into something deeper as Arthur drew him in.  
  
Fuck, he'd missed this.  
  
After a few, glorious, moments however, the point man seemed to realise exactly what was happening because he tensed, pushing him away and glancing quickly around as the surprisingly disinterested projections. “What the fuck was that Eames?” he hissed, clearly unwilling to risk regaining their attention.  
  
“I believe that Arthur, was what is colloquially known as a kiss.” And because the first one had felt to right, Eames leaned in for another one. Suprisingly, despite his protests, Arthur let him and suddenly they were all over each other, Eames walking the smaller man backwards into the conveniently waiting lift, and hitting the emergency stop button after a few seconds to ensure they weren't interrupted.  
  
Then, just when things were getting interesting, Arthur pushed him away, eyes wide and panting, hair messed, and fuck, Eames never wanted to give this up again.  
  
Arthur, it seems, had different ideas. “Don't, just... don't,” the words sounded as if they were being dragged out despite himself. There seemed to be another internal battle playing across his face, in the subtle curve of his mouth and the tightening lines around his eyes, and Eames had a suspicion he was going to get caught in the cross-fire.  
  
Still, he wasn't going to let Arthur have the final say here, “You can't tell me weren't enjoying it. Or is that just a gun in your pocket?” He gestured somewhat obscenely towards the obvious evidence of the point man's arousal and was rewarded with the beginnings of a blush spreading oh-so-endearingly across the man's usually composed cheeks.  
  
As was so often the case, he covered up his embarrassment with anger, “need I remind you, Eames, that we're in the middle of a job.”  
  
Hiding himself in work, another typical Arthur reaction, one which was starting to get old, “We're in the middle of a run through, you can't tell me you don't already know this level by heart.” Eames pointed out to him, and then because he couldn't quite help himself, continuing, “You've probably already put in lots of those little Penrose steps and paradox traps you're so fond of.”  
  
Arthur didn't bother denying it, instead turning his back on him to push the button for the next floor, the stiffness in his shoulders clearly saying that the conversation was over. Once again, Eames intercepted him before he got there. “Oh no, Arthur, you don't get to just run away from this. Isn't that what you told me, that I didn't just get to run away?”  
  
Arthur glared at where their hands were touching, before quickly wrenching his hand out of Eames' grasp. “I think I also that you should say it to my face when it was over.” He pointed out sharply, before continuing with not a bit of bitterness and maybe even some measure of regret, “ I think we both made pretty clear in Oslo, don't you?”  
  
 _Oh yes, very clear love_ , Eames thought, his chest twisting bitterly inside, but he was nothing if not persistent, stubborn even his mother would say, and suddenly this, _this_ , wasn't something he wanted to just let go any more. “And right now I can't think of a single reason why that was, can you?”  
  
Arthur paused for a few moments, and at first Eames thought he wasn't actually going to respond, eventually though he sighed, “Because we were impossible together.”  
  
He sounded resigned, regretful over the fact, which just caused Eames to push all that much harder, “Ah, and here I was under the impression we were in the business of the impossible these days.”  
  
Arthur looked for a moment like he was about to give in, and the forger couldn't help but feel a twist of victory at the fact. But then laughed, a short sharp ironic, not to mention bitter, laugh, “Fuck, I can't believe you want to do this now.”  
  
Eames raised an eyebrow at him, a slightly mocking mirror of Arthur's oh so frequent expression, whilst leaning casually against the lift control panel, effectively boxing the point man into the corner. “Can you think of a better time?” he challenged him, because he was so close, he could feel it.  
  
He was rewarded with a twitch of his lips, and almost resigned smile, and Eames knew he'd won at least some part of the argument, although possibly not the part he'd been expecting, “How about when we're not about to go into the most difficult job of our lives?”  
  
Despite his otherwise persistent and stubborn nature, years of being around the point man had nonetheless given him a refined sense of when he should actually give in and take what he could get, even if he rarely actually bothered to listen to it. “Fine then Arthur, afterwards, we'll set up a date, my people will call your people.” The last part was said with a hint of a smirk, an attempt to lighten to mood and it drew out a smile of affectionate amusement from the man in question.  
  
“Idiot,” he said fondly, before continuing more seriously, “I mean it. Afterwards, we'll talk. Fuck, if we pull this off, I suppose anything's possible.”  
  
++++  
  
Los Angeles, August, 2010  
  
They pull it off.  
  
Even Eames, despite his insistence on Inception being well in the realm of the possible, although still firmly hovering around downright improbable, was actually quite surprised by this fact. Of course by the end of it he was even more surprised that they all made it out of there with their mind's actually intact, despite the close call with Cobb and Saito. Not of course, that Eames could bring himself to care about Cobb, since he was the once who failed utterly to tell them about the fact that if they died in the dream, they wouldn't just fucking wake up.  
  
Worse, the git had the temerity to blame Arthur for this being an issue because he failed to dig out that Fischer was militarised. After all, it wasn't as if anyone had ever had an issue getting torn apart by feral projections in an untrained mind before. Or for that matter, like they had to worry about getting attacked by the shade of their team-mates dead wife, which he'd also conveniently forgotten to tell anyone about.  
  
Not that Eames was actually feeling particularly bitter about all that at this point in time, although he was mentally adding it to his list of reservations when it came to working with the extractor again, should he ever return to the business of course. He probably would be later, when the true enormity of who close it had all come to going to shit had properly sunk in, but right now he was too high on the fact they were still alive, the fact they'd pulled it off and, just possibly, the small, inviting, if not downright seductive, smile Arthur had given him when telling him to “Go to sleep, Mr Eames.”  
  
Despite this, other than the surreptitiously shared glances and muted smiles in the airplane, they didn't look at each other once they'd landed. None of them did, except for Ariadne, who seemed to keep forgetting that they weren't meant to know each other, weren't meant to be seen together. She'd learn, and in the meantime her half-aborted sideways glances would no doubt be interpreted as the natural reactions of a healthy, red-blooded, young woman towards a well-dressed, and more than slightly attractive, if Eames' might say so himself, older man, well older men really since she was sharing them equally between himself, Cobb and Arthur.  
  
He caught one of her final glances, just as she was struggling to get her bags of the carousel, and gave her a wink, at once flirtatious and innocent. He felt something, someone, bump his shoulder as he did so, he turned around, instinctive apology on his lips, to come face to face with an oh so familiar sharp suited figure.  
  
The smile Arthur gave him was at once polite and disinterested, apologising as he would to any stranger, deftly moving away through the crowds without a backward glance. Not, however, before letting a small slip of white fall casually, as if by accident, from between the pages of the newspaper he'd managed to acquire somewhere along the line.  
  
Eames smirked, _very smooth Arthur_. He waited a few moments, until the point man was well and truly gone before casually letting slip a couple of the various travel documents he was carrying, bending down to grab the paper even as he picked the various offending objects back up. It was, he noticed, a card of the Christmas variety, an incongruous site in the middle of the August, with a forlorn sprig of mistletoe on the front which made him smirk slightly at the obvious allusion. Inside, printed in Arthur's precise, tidy script, the one, Eames had discovered, he only used for other people's benefit, was _Tomorrow, 8pm, bring wine_ and an address. The smirk turned into a full-blown grin at that, and he was sure he was probably attracting not a few curious glances at his expression, but really, he couldn't bring himself to care.  
  
++++  
  
He got there at 8.30, because the taxi he'd ordered failed to turn up on time. LA traffic was, it appeared, a nightmare at any time of day and the driver had somehow, impossibly, managed to get lost, despite the clear Satnav voice Eames could hear filtering back from besides the drivers seat. He wondered briefly if the ever, almost obsessively, punctual point man would slam the door in his face for the crime, before dismissing the idea as being far too petty for Arthur's style, he'd probably just make him pay the offence in other ways.  
  
In any case, Arthur must have been in a forgiving mood, because he simply quirked his lips when he opened the door and commented, “Trust you to be fashionably late.”  
  
“What can I say love, it's breeding,” he responded with a grin, pushing the door shut behind him and placing the bottle of wine on a convenient side table in the hallway. He'd barely finished the manoeuvre before he found himself being pinned against the door and thoroughly ravished, and really there wasn't a better word for it, by a particularly frantic point man.  
  
“Not that I'm complaining, Arthur, what happened to talking?” Eames eventually asked when he was able to come back up for air. Not, of course, that he wanted him to stop but there was a part of him trying desperately to remind him that this was where they went wrong the first time, jumping into things without sorting out where they stood first.  
  
Arthur growled, a low deep rumble of need that went straight to Eames' groin. “Later, we can talk later. Dammit Eames, we could have lost our minds down there, just let me have this.” There was almost a plea in his voice at the end, a sound so out of place in the repertoire of Arthur's intonation, that all the forger could really do was nod in shaky acceptance as the point man sank to his knees in front of him.  
  
Afterwards, they ended up spent and exhausted on Arthur's new sofa, in his new living room, and Eames suspected that had something to do with FBI agent he'd heard second-hand rumours off, the hot shot in the Mind Crimes division with a highly ironic name who'd set his targets on making his mark by catching some of the most high profile names in the business.  
  
Or of course it could just be that Arthur had wanted a change, he'd half to ask him about it later, once he could actually get his brain's higher functions back into some form of working order, when he didn't have Arthur burying his head in Eames' shoulder and murmuring something that sounded a lot like “God, I've missed this.” Somehow Eames' didn't think he was referring to the sex, frantic and messy as it was after so long apart.  
  
“I don't want this to be like before,” Arthur announced suddenly after, as he was dragging back on the articles of clothing which had ended up strewn all over the living room.  
  
Eames got that sinking feeling in his stomach that this was going to be The Talk, the type of conversation where only one of the parties actually did any of the talking. This feeling was only intensified by the way that Arthur refused to look at him as he talked, focusing instead on the oh so interesting sight of his shirt buttons.  
  
Before he could come up with a suitable reply, Arthur continued, obviously trying to get the words out before he lost his courage, “I don't want this to just be something we do in between jobs when he have the time.”  
  
 _Oh._ Whatever bitter retort Eames had been preparing died on his lips at the words, and he had to take a moment to process them before he could reply. He tried and discarded a number of ways he could say _yes, oh yes_ without sounding like a complete lunatic, before eventually settling on, “You know love, I hear the best point man in the world might be in need of a partner. Do you think a forger would do?” He put the suggestion forward casually as if he wasn't talking about what could be the most important thing in the world to him right now, and was rewarded with a smile, one of those rare genuine ones which seemed to light up his whole face.  
  
“That could work,” he agreed, the point man's attempt at casual doing little to disguise the clear happiness in his voice. “Of course not every job is going to need a forger,” the words were both tentative and firm, as if uncertain how Eames would reaction to this insistence on still maintaining a level of separation in their work lives yet also clearly unwilling to compromise  
  
Eames could understand the sentiment, especially coming out, as Arthur was, of what was no doubt a suffocating professional partnership. There was something scary about being tied down entirely to one person. “True, and not every team is going to need a point man. Still, I imagine with our reputations we'll be in more than a position to pick and choose our jobs,” he replied, trying to convey as best he could how very much he was in agreement on this.  
  
Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood he added, “Of course, I don't know about you love, but after that last job I wouldn't mind taking some time to enjoy the fruits of our labours.”  
  
“Really? And what fruits would those be, Mr Eames,” Arthur was clearly of a similar mind, because he replied in a tone that was guaranteed to get the forger worked up for round two.  
  
“Oh, I'm sure you can use your imagination for that one, as limited as it may be.” He dragged the point man down for another kiss.  
  
Because they may not be ready to put what they had into words yet, maybe they never would be, and he had no doubt that it wouldn't always be easy, but this was something he was going to fight for every inch of the way. After all, when all you really had left were dreams, you had to do everything you could to keep them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> “Arthur, attends!” - Arthur wait  
> “Arrête, m'enfin!” - Stop, at last (more an expression of exasperation, a bit like 'for pity's sake')  
> “Faut pas lui prendre comme ça, Eames est le même avec tout le monde. Tu says bien qu'il te taquine!” - You shouldn't take him like that, Eames is the same with everyone. You know he's only teasing you.


End file.
